GIFT  or 


rV 


"T 


A   HUMBLE   ROMANCE 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

MARY   E.  WILKINS 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN    SQUARE 
LONDON:   30  FLEET  STREET 


Copyright,  1887,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


T< 


MAf// 

LIST   OF   STORIES. 


PAGE 

A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE I 

TWO  OLD  LOVERS 25 

A  SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER 37 

A  TARDY  THANKSGIVING 49 

rf  A  MODERN  DRAGON 60 

AN  HONEST  SOUL  .  ". 78 

A  TASTE  OF  HONEY 92 

*  BRAKES  AND  WHITE  Vl'LETS 107 

ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS  ...........  1 18 

ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD 134 

OLD  LADY  PINGREE 148 

CINNAMON  ROSES  .............  164 

THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE l8o 

A  LOVER  OF  FLOWERS 192 

A  FAR-AWAY  MELODY 2c8 

A  MORAL  EXIGENCY .  219 

»  A  MISTAKEN  CHARITY  .  ^ 234 

GENTIAN 250 

AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE 266 

-A  GATHERER  OF  SIMPLES 280 

|  *AN  INDEPENDENT   THINKER 296 


iv  LIST  OF  STORIES, 

PAGE 

IN    BUTTERFLY   TIME 315 

AN    UNWILLING    GUEST 330 

A   SOUVENIR 350 

AN    OLD    ARITHMETICIAN 368 

A    CONFLICT    ENDED     ......  .....  382 

A    PATIENT    WAITER     .       .       .       .       ._     ._ 399 

A    CONQUEST   OF    HUMILITY 415 


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' 


A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

SHE  was  stooping  over  the  great  kitchen  sink,  washing 
the  breakfast  dishes.  Under  fostering  circumstances,  her 
.slenderness  of  build  might  have  resulted  in  delicacy  or 
daintiness;  now  the  harmony  between  strength  and  task 
had  been  repeatedly  broken,  and  the  result  was  ugliness. 
Her  finger  joints  and  wrist  bones  were  knotty  and  out  of 
proportion,  her  elbows,  which  her  rolled-up  sleeves  dis 
played,  were  pointed  and  knobby,  her  shoulders  bent,  her 
feet  spread  beyond  their  natural  bounds — from  head  to 
.foot  she  was  a  little  discordant  note.  She  had  a  pale, 
peaked  face,  her  scanty  fair  hair  was  strained  tightly  back, 
and  twisted  into  a  tiny  knot,  and  her  expression  was  at 
once  passive  and  eager. 

There  came  a  ringing  knock  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  a 
face  of  another  description,  large,  strong-featured,  and  as 
sured,  peered  out  of  the  pantry,  which  was  over  against  the 
sink. 

"Who  is  it,  Sally?" 

"I  don'  know,  Mis'  King." 

"  Well,  go  to  the  door,  can't  you,  an'  not  stan'  thar  gapin'. 
I  can't;  my  hands  are  in  the  butter." 

Sally  shook  the  dish-water  ofT  her  red,  sodden  fingers, 
and  shuffled  to  the  door. 


2       ,     .,,,,.,,,  A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

A  tall  man' with  a  scraggy  sandy  mustache  stood  there. 
He  had  some  scales  in  his  hand. 

"Good-mornin',  marm,"  he  said.  "  Hev  you  got  any 
rags?" 

"  I'll  see,"  said  the  girl.  Then  she  went  over  to  the 
pantry,  and  whispered  to  her  mistress  that  it  was  the  tin- 
peddler. 

"Botheration!"  cried  Mrs.  King,  impatiently;  "why 
couldn't  he  hev  come  another  day?  Here  I  am  right  in 
the  midst  of  butter,  an'  I've  got  lots  of  rags,  an'  I've  got  to 
hev  some  new  milk-pails  right  away." 

All  of  this  reached  the  ears  of  the  tin-peddler,  but  he 
merely  stood  waiting,  the  corners  of  his  large  mouth  curving 
up  good-naturedly,  and  scrutinized  with  pleasant  blue  eyes 
the  belongings  of  the  kitchen,  and  especially  the  slight, 
slouching  figure  at  the  sink,  to  which  Sally  had  returned. 

"I  s'pose,"  said-Mrs.  King,  approaching  the  peddler  at 
length,  with  decision  thinly  veiled  by  doubt,  "  that  I  shall 
hev  to  trade  with  you,  though  I  don'  know  how  to  stop 
this  mornin',  for  I'm  right  in  the  midst  of  butter-making. 
I  wish  you'd  'a  happened  along  some  other  clay." 

"Wa'al,"  replied  the  peddler,  laughing,  "an'  so  I  would, 
inarm,  ef  I'd  only  known.  But  I  don't  see  jest  how  I  could 
hev,  unless  you'd  'a  pasted  it  up  on  the  fences,  or  had  it 
put  in  the  newspaper,  or  mebbe  in  the  almanac." 

He  lounged  smilingly  against  the  door-casing,  jingling 
his  scales,  and  waiting  for  the  woman  to  make  up  her  mind. 

She  smiled  unwillingly,  with  knitted  brows. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "of  course  you  ain't  to  blame.  I 
guess  I'll  go  an'  pick  up  my  rags,  up  in  the  garret.  There's 
quite  a  lot  of  'em,  an'  it  '11  take  some  time.  I  don't  know 
as  you'll  want  to  wait." 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.     .  z 

o 

"  Lor',  I  don't  keer,"  answered  the  peddler.  "  I'd  jest 
as  soon  rest  a  leetle  as  not.  It's  a  powerful  hot  mornin' 
for  this  time  o'  year,  an'  I've  got  all  the  day  afore  me." 

He  came  in  and  seated  himself,  with  a  loose-jointed  sprawl, 
on  a  chair  near  the  door. 

After  Mrs.  King  had  gone  out,  he  sat  a  few  minutes  eying 
the  girl  at  the  sink  intently.  She  kept  steadily  on  with  her 
work,  though  there  was  a  little  embarrassment  and  uncer 
tainty  in  her  face. 

"  Would  it  be  too  much  trouble  ef  I  should  ask  you  to 
give  me  a  tumbler  of  water,  miss  ?" 

She  filled  one  of  her  hot,  newly-washed  glasses  with  water 
from  a  pail  standing  on  a  shelf  at  one  end  of  the  sink,  and 
brought  it  over  to  him.  "  It's  cold,"  she  said.  "  I  drawed 
it  myself  jest  a  few  minutes  ago,  or  I'd  get  some  right  out 
of  the  well  for  you." 

"  This  is  all  right,  an'  thanky  kindly,  miss ;  it's  proper 
good  water." 

He  drained  the  glass,  and  carried  it  back  to  her  at  the 
sink,  where  she  had  returned.  She  did  not  seem  to  dare 
absent  herself  from  her  dish-washing  task  an  instant. 

He  set  the  empty  glass  down  beside  the  pail ;  then  he 
caught  hold  of  the  girl  by  her  slender  shoulders  and  faced 
her  round  towards  him.  She  turned  pale,  and  gave  a 
smothered  scream. 

"Thar!  thar!  don't  you  go  to  being  afeard  of  me,"  said 
the  peddler.  "  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  whole  world. 
I  jest  want  to  take  a  squar  look  at  you.  You're  the  worst- 
off-lookin'  little  cretur  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on." 

She  looked  up  at  him  pitifully,  still  only  half  reassured. 
There  were  inflamed  circles  around  her  dilated  blue  eyes. 

"You've  been  cryin',  ain't  you?" 


4  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

The  girl  nodded  meekly.     "  Please  let  me  go,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I'll  let  you  go;  but  I'm  a-goin'  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions  first,  an'  I  want  you  to  answer  'em,  for  I'll  be 
hanged  ef  I  ever  see —  Ain't  she  good  to  you  ?" — indi 
cating  Mrs.  King  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the  door 
through  which  she  had  departed. 

"Yes,  she's  good  enough,  I  guess." 

"Don't  ever  scold  you,  hey?" 

"I  don'  know;  I  guess  so,  sometimes." 

"Did  this  morning  didn't  she?" 

"A  little.     I  was  kinder  behind  with  the  work." 

"Keeps  you  workin'  pretty  stiddy,  don't  she?" 

"Yes;  thar's  consider'ble  to  do  this  time  o'  year." 

"Cookin'  for  hired  men,  I  s'pose,  and  butter  an'  milk?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  hev  you  been  livin'  here?" 

"  She  took  me  when  I  was  little." 

"Do  you  do  anything  besides  work?  —  go  round  like 
other  gals? — hev  any  good  times?" 

"  Sometimes."  She  said  it  doubtfully,  as  if  casting  about 
in  her  mind  for  reminiscences  to  prove  the  truth  of  it. 

"  Git  good  wages?" 

"  A  dollar  a  week  sence  I  was  eighteen.  I  worked  for 
my  board  an'  close  afore." 

"Got  any  folks?" 

"  I  guess  I've  got  some  brothers  and  sisters  somewhar. 
I  don'  know  jest  whar.  Two  of  'em  went  West,  an'  one  is 
merried  somewhar  in  York  State.  We  was  scattered  when 
father  died.  Thar  was  ten  of  us,  an'  we  was  awful  poor. 
Mis'  King  took  me.  I  was  the  youngest;  'bout  four,  they 
said  I  was.  I  'ain't  never  known  any  folks  but  Mis' 
King." 


A    HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  5 

The  peddler  walked  up  and  down  the  kitchen  floor  twice ; 
Sally  kept  on  with  her  dishes ;  then  he  came  back  to  her. 

"  Look  a-here,"  he  said ;  "  leave  your  dish-washin'  alone 
a  minute.  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  good  look  in  the  face, 
an'  tell  me  what  you  think  of  me."  , 

She  looked  up  shyly  in  his  florid,  freckled  face,  with  its 
high  cheek-bones  and  scraggy  sandy  mustache ;  then  she 
plunged  her  hands  into  the  dish-tub  again. 

"  I  don'  know,"  she  said,  bashfully. 

"Well,  mebbe  you  do  know,  only  you  can't  put  it  into 
words.  Now  jest  take  a  look  out  the  window  at  my  tin 
cart  thar.  That's  all  my  own,  a  private  consarn.  I  ain't 
runnin'  for  no  company.  I  owns  the  cart  an'  horse,  an' 
disposes  of  the  rags,  an'  sells  the  tin,  all  on  my  own  hook. 
An'  I'm-  a-doin'  pretty  well  at  it;  I'm  a-layin'  up  a  leetle 
money.  I  ain't  got  no  family.  Now  this  was  what  I  was 
a-comin'  at:  s'pose  you  should  jest  leave  the  dishes,  an'  the 
scoldin'  woman,  an'  the  butter,  an'  everything,  an'  go  a-ridin' 
off  with  me  on  my  tin-cart.  I  wouldn't  know  you,  an'  she 
wouldn't  know  you,  an'  you  wouldn't  know  yourself,  in  a 
week.  You  wouldn't  hev  a  bit  of  work  to  do,  but  jest  set 
up  thar  like  a  queen,  a-ridin'  and  seein'  the  country.  For 
that's  the  way  we'd  live,  you  know.  I  wouldn't  hev  you 
keepin'  house  an'  slavin'.  We'd  stop  along  the  road  for 
vittles,  and  bring  up  at  taverns  nights.  What  d'ye  say  to 
it?" 

She  stopped  her  dish-washing  now,  and  stood  staring  at 
him,  her  lips  slightly  parted  and  her  cheeks  flushed. 

"  I  know  I  ain't  much  in  the  way  of  looks,"  the  peddler 
went  on,  "  an'  I'm  older  than  you — I'm  near  forty — an'  I've 
been  merried  afore.  I  don't  s'pose  you  kin  take  a  likin' 
to  me  right  off,  but  you  might  arter  a  while.  An'  I'd  take 


6  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

keer  of  you,  you  poor  leetle  thing.  An'  I  don't  b'lieve  you 
know  anything  about  how  nice  it  is  to  be  taken  keer  of,  an' 
hev  the  hard,  rough  things  kep'  off  by  somebody  that  likes 
yer." 

Still  she  saicl  nothing,  but  stood  staring  at  him. 

"You  ain't  got  no  beau,  hev  you?"  asked  the  peddler,  as 
a  sudden  thought  struck  him. 

u  No."  She  shook  her  head,  and  her  cheeks  flushed 
redder. 

"  Well,  what  clo  you  say  to  goin'  with  me  ?  You'll  hev  to 
hurry  up  an'  make  up  your  mind,  or  the  old  lady'll  be  back." 

The  girl  was  almost  foolishly  ignorant  of  the  world,  but 
her  instincts  were  as  brave  and  innocent  as  an  angel's. 
Tainted  with  the  shiftless  weariness  and  phlegm  of  her 
parents,  in  one  direction  she  was  vigorous  enough. 

Whether  it  was  by  the  grace  of  God,  or  an  inheritance 
from  some  far-off  Puritan  ancestor,  the  fire  in  whose  veins 
had  not  burned  low,  she  could  see,  if  she  saw  nothing  else, 
the  distinction  between  right  and  wrong  with  awful  plain 
ness.  Nobody  had  ever  called  her  anything  but  a  good 
girl.  It  was  saicl  with  a  disparagement,  maybe,  but  it  was 
always  "  a  good  girl." 

She  looked  up  at  the  man  before  her,  her  cheeks  burning 
painfully  hot,  her  eyes  at  once  drooping  and  searching. 
"  I — don't  know  jest — how  you  mean,"  she  stammered.  "  I 
wouldn't  go  with  the  king,  if— it  wasn't  to— go  honest— 

The  peddler's  face  flushed  as  red  as  hers.  "  Now,  look 
a-here,  little  un,"  he  said,  "You  jest  listen,  an'  it's  God's 
own  truth ;  ef  I  hadn't  'a  meant  all  right  I  wouldn't  'a 
come  to  you,  but  to  some  other  gal,  hansumer,  an'  pearter, 
an' — but,  O  Lord!  I  ain't  that  kind,  anyway.  What  I  want 
is  to  merry  you  honest,  an'  take  keer  of  you,  an'  git  that 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  7 

look  off  your  face.  I  know  it's  awful  sudden,  an'  it's  askin' 
a  good  deal  of  a  gal  to  trust  so  much  in  a  fellow  she  never 
set  eyes  on  afore.  Ef  you  can't  do  it,  I'll  never  blame  you  ; 
but  ef  you  kin,  well,  I  don't  b'lieve  you'll  ever  be  sorry. 
Most  folks  would  think  I  was  a  fool,  too,  an'  mebbe  I  am, 
but  I  wanted  to  take  keer  on  you  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on 
you ;  an'  afore  I  know  it  the  wantin'  to  take  keer  on  you 
will  be  growin'  into  lovin'  you.  Now  you  hurry  and  make 
up  your  mind,  or  she  will  be  back." 

Sally  had  little  imagination,  and  a  loving  nature.  In  her 
heart,  as  in  all  girls'  hearts,  the  shy,  secret  longing  for  a 
lover  had  strengthened  with  her  growth,  but  she  had  never 
dreamed  definitely  of  one.  Now  she  surveyed  the  homely, 
scrawny,  good-natured  visage  before  her,  and  it  filled  well 
enough  the  longing  nature  had  placed  in  her  helpless  heart. 
His  appearance  dispelled  no  previous  illusion,  for  previous 
illusion  there  had  been  none.  No  one  had  ever  spoken  to 
her  in  this  way.  Rough  and  precipitate  though  it  was,  it 
was  skilful  wooing;  for  it  made  its  sincerity  felt,  and  a  girl 
more  sophisticated  than  this  one  could  not  have  listened  to 
it  wholly  untouched. 

The  erratic  nature  of  the  whole  proceeding  did  not  clis- 
Tnay  her.  She  had  no  conscience  for  conventionalities; 
she  was  too  simple;  hers  only  provided  for  pure  right  and 
wrong.  Strange  to  say,  the  possible  injury  she  would  do* 
her  mistress  by  leaving  her  in  this  way  did  not  occur  to 
her  till  afterwards.  Now  she  looked  at  her  lover,  and  be 
gan  to  believe  in  him,  and  as  soon  as  she  began  to  believe 
in  him  —  poor,  unattractive,  ignorant  little  thing  that  she 
was  ! — she  began  to  love  just  like  other  girls.  All  over  her 
crimson  face  flashed  the  signs  of  yielding.  The  peddler 
saw  and  understood  them. 


8  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

"  You  will — won't  you,  little  un  ?"  he  cried.  Then,  as  her 
eyes  drooped  more  before  his,  and  her  mouth  quivered  be 
tween  a  sob  and  a  smile,  he  took  a  step  forward  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  towards  her.  Then  he  stepped 
back,  and  his  arms  fell. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  "  I  won't ;  I'd  like  to  give  you  a  hug, 
but  I  won't;  I  won't  so  much  as  touch  that  little  lean  hand 
of  yours  till  you're  my  wife.  You  shall  see  I  mean  honest. 
But  come  along  now,  little  un,  or  she  will  be  back.  I  de- 
clar'  ef  I  don't  more'n  half  believe  she's  fell  in  a  fit,  or 
she'd  ha'  been  back  afore  now.  Come  now,  dear,  be  spry!" 

"Now?"  said  Sally,  in  turn. 

"Now!  why,  of  course  now:  what's  the  use  of  waitin'? 
Mebbe  you  want  to  make  some  wedclin'  cake,  but  I  reckon 
we'd  better  buy  some  over  in  Derby,  for  it  might  put  the 
old  lady  out ;"  and  the  peddler  chuckled.  "Why,  I'm  jest 
a-goin'  to  stow  you  away  in  that  'ere  tin -cart  of  mine — 
there's  plenty  of  room,  for  I've  been  on  the  road  a-sellin' 
nigh  a  week.  An'  then  I'm  a-goin'  to  drive  out  of  this  yard, 
arter  I've  traded  with  your  missis,  as  innocent  as  the  very 
innocentest  lamb  you  ever  see,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  drive 
along  a  piece  till  it's  safe;  an'  then  you're  a-goin'  to  git 
out  an'  set  up  on  the  seat  alongside  of  me,  an'  we're  goin' 
to  keep  on  till  we  git  to  Derby,  an'  then  we'll  git  merried, 
jest  as  soon  as  we  kin  find  a  minister  as  wants  to  airn  a 
ten-dollar  bill." 

"But,"  gasped  Sally,  "she'll  ask  whar  I  am." 

"  I'll  fix  that.  You  lay  there  in  the  cart  an'  hear  what  I 
say.  Lor',  Pel  jest  as  soon  tell  her  to  her  face,  myself,  what 
we  was  goin'  to  do,  an'  set  you  right  up  on  the  seat  aside 
of  me,  afore  her  eyes ;  but  she'd  talk  hard,  most  likely,  an' 
you  look  scared  enough  now,  an'  you'd  cry,  an'  your  eyes 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  g 

would  git  redder;  an'  she  might  sass  you  so  you'd  be  ready 
to  back  out,  too.  Women  kin  say  hard  things  to  other  wom 
en,  an'  they  ain't  likely  to  understan'  any  woman  but  them 
selves  trustin'  a  man  overmuch.  I  reckon  this  is  the  best 
way."  He  went  towards  the  door,  and  motioned  her  to  come. 

"But  I  want  my  bonnet." 

"Never  mind  the  bunnit;  I'll  buy  you  one  in  Derby." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  ride  into  Derby  bare-headed,"  said 
Sally,  almost  crying. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  you  do,  little  un,  that's  a  fact; 
but  hurry  an'  git  the  bunnit,  or  she  76'///be  here.  I  thought 
I  heard  her  a  minute  ago." 

"Thar's  a  leetle  money  I've  saved,  too." 

"Well, .git  that;  we  don't  want  to  make  the  old  lady 
vallyble  presents,  an'  you  kin  buy  yourself  sugar-plums 
with  it.  But  be  spry." 

She  gave  him  one  more  scared  glance,  and  hastened  out 
of  the  room,  her  limp  calico  accommodating  itself  to  every 
ungraceful  hitch  of  her  thin  limbs  and  sharp  hips. 

"I'll  git  her  a  gown  with  puckers  in  the  back,"  mused 
the  peddler,  gazing  after  her.  Then  he  hastened  out  to 
his  tin-cart,  and  arranged  a  vacant  space  in  the  body  of  it. 
He  had  a  great-coat,  which  he  spread  over  the  floor. 

"Thar,  little  un,  let  me  put  you  right  in,"  he  whispered, 
when  Sally  emerged,  her  bonnet  on,  a  figured  green  delaine 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  little  hoard  in  an  old 
stocking  dangling  from  her  hand. 

She  turned  round  and  faced  him  once  more,  her  eyes  like 
a  child's  peering  into  a  dark  room.  "You  mean  honest!" 

"Before  God,  I  do,  little  un.  Now  git  in  quick,  for  she 
is  comin' !" 

He  had  to  lift  her  in,  for  her  poor  little  limbs  were  too 


io  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

weak  to  support  her.     They  were  not  a  moment  too  soon, 
for  Mrs.  King  stood  in  the  kitchen  cloor  a  second  later. 

"  Here  !  you  ain't  goin',  air  you  ?"  she  called  out. 

"No,  marm;  I  jest  stepped  out  to  look  arter  my  boss; 
he  was  a  trifle  uneasy  with  the  flies,  an'  thar  was  a  yaller 
wasp  buzzin'  round."  And  the  peddler  stepped  up  to  the 
door  with  an  open  and  artless  visage. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  but  you'd  git  tired  waitin'.  You 
spoke  so  about  not  bein'  in  a  hurry  that  I  stopped  to  pick 
my  white  rags  out  from  the  colored  ones.  I  knew  they'd 
bring  more  ef  I  did.  I'd  been  meanin'  to  hev  'em  all  sort 
ed  out  afore  a  peddler  come  along.  I  thought  I'd  hev 
Sally  pick  'em  over  last  week,  but  she  was  sick —  Why, 
whar  is  Sally?" 

"Who?" 

"  Sally — the  girl  that  was  washin'  dishes  when  you  come 
— she  went  to  the  door." 

"Oh,  the  gal!  I  b'lieve  I  saw  her  go  out  the  door  a 
minute  afore  I  went  out  to  see  to  my  hoss." 

"  Well,  I'll  call  her,  for  she'll  never  git  the  dishes  done, 
I  guess,  an'  then  we'll  see  about  the  rags." 

Mrs.  King  strode  towards  the  cloor,  but  the  peddler 
stopped  her. 

"  Now,  marm,  ef  you  please,"  said  he,  "  I'd  a  leetle  ray- 
ther  you'd  attend  to  business  first,  and  call  Sally  arterwarcls, 
ef  it's  jest  the  same  to  you,  for  I  am  gittin'  in  a  leetle  of  a 
hurry,  and  don't  feel  as  ef  I  could  afford  to  wait  much 
longer." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  King,  reluctantly,  "I  don't  suppose  I 
orter  ask  you  to,  but  I  do  hev  such  discouragin'  times  with 
help.  I  declare  it  don't  seem  to  me  as  ef  Sally  ever  would 
git  them  dishes  done." 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  Iz 

"  Wa'al,  it  don't  seem  to  me,  from  what  I've  seen,  that 
she  ever  will,  either,"  said  the  peddler,  as  he  gathered  up 
Mrs.  King's  rag-bags  and  started  for  the  cart. 

"  Anybody  wouldn't  need  to  watch  her  for  more'n  two 
minutes  to  see  how  slow  she  was,"  assented  Mrs.  King, 
following.  "  She's  a  girl  I  took  when  she  was  a  baby  to 
bring  up,  an'  I've  wished  more'n  fifty  times  I  hadn't.  She's 
a  good  girl  enough,  but  she's  awful  slow — no  snap  to  her. 
How  much  is  them  milk  pans?" 

Mrs.  King  was  reputedly  a  sharp  woman  at  a  bargain. 
To  trade  with  her  was  ordinarily  a  long  job  for  any  ped 
dler,  but  to-day  it  was  shortened  through  skilful  manage 
ment.  The  tinman  came  clown  with  astonishing  alacrity 
from  his  first  price,  at  the  merest  suggestion  from  his  cus 
tomer,  and,  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  usual,  she  bustled 
into  the  house,  her  arms  full  of  pans,  and  the  radiant  and 
triumphant  conviction  of  a  good  bargain  in  her  face. 

The  peddler  whirled  rapidly  into  his  seat,  and  snatched 
up  the  lines;  but  even  then  he  heard  Mrs.  King  calling  the 
girl  as  he  rattled  around  the  corner. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Mrs.  King's  there  was  a  house ; 
a  little  beyond,  the  road  ran  through  a  considerable  stretch 
of  woods.  This  was  a  very  thinly  settled  neighborhood. 
The  peddler  drove  rapidly  until  he  reached  the  woods ; 
then  he  stopped,  got  down,  and  peered  into  the  cart. 

Sally's  white  face  and  round  eyes  peered  piteously  back 
at  him. 

"  How're  you  gittin'  along,  little  un  ?" 

"Oh,  let  me  git  out  an'  go  back!" 

"  Lor',  no,  little  un,  you  don't  want  to  go  back  now !  Bless 
your  heart,  she's  all  primed  for  an  awful  sassin'.  I  tell  you 
what  'tis, you  sha'n't  ride  cooped  up  in  thar  any  longer;  you 


12  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

shall  git  out  an'  set  up  here  with  me.  We'll  keep  our  ears 
pricked  up,  an'  ef  we  hear  anybody  comin',  I'll  stow  you  in 
the  box  under  the  seat  afore  you  kin  say  Jack  Robinson, 
an*  thar  ain't  any  houses  for  three  mile." 

He  helped  the  poor  shivering  little  thing  out,  and  lifted 
her  up  to  the  high  seat.  When  he  had  seated  himself  be 
side  her,  and  gathered  up  the  lines,  he  looked  down  at  her 
curiously.  Her  bonnet  the  severe  taste  of  Mrs.  King  had 
regulated.  It  was  a  brown  straw,  trimmed  with  brown  rib 
bon.  He  eyed  it  disapprovingly.  "  I'll  git  you  a  white  bun- 
nit,  sich  as  brides  wear,  in  Derby,"  said  he. 

She  blushed  a  little  at  that,  and  glanced  up  at  him,  a 
little  grateful  light  over  her  face. 

"You  poor  little  thing!"  said  the  peddler,  and  put  out 
his  hand  towards  her,  then  drew  it  back  again. 

Derby  was  a  town  with  the  prestige  of  a  city.  It  was 
the  centre  of  trade  for  a  large  circle  of  little  country  towns ; 
its  main  street  was  crowded  on  a  fair  day,  when  the  roads 
were  good,  with  any  quantity  of  nondescript  and  antedilu 
vian-looking  vehicles,  and  the  owners  thereof  presented  a 
wide  variety  of  quaintness  in  person  and  attire. 

So  this  eloping  pair,  the  tall,  bony,  shambling  man,  and 
the  thin,  cowed-looking  girl,  her  scant  skirts  slipping  too 
far  below  her  waist- line  in  the  back,  and  following  the 
movements  of  her  awkward  heels,  excited  no  particular  at 
tention. 

After  the  tin-cart  had  been  put  up  in  the  hotel  stable, 
and  the  two  had  been  legally  pronounced  man  and  wife, 
or,  specifically,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jake  Russell,  they  proceeded 
on  foot  down  the  principal  street,  in  which  all  the  shops 
were  congregated,  in  search  of  some  amendments  to  the 
bride's  attire. 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  I3 

If  it  was  comparatively  unnoticed,  Sally  was  fully  alive 
to  the  unsuitableness  of  her  costume.  She  turned  around, 
and  followed  with  wistful  eyes  the  prettily  dressed  girls 
they  met.  There  was  a  great  regret  in  her  heart  over  her 
best  gown,  a  brown  delaine,  with  a  flounce  on  the  bottom, 
and  a  shiny  back.  She  had  so  confidently  believed  in  its 
grandeur  so  long,  that  now,  seen  by  her  mental  vision,  it 
hardly  paled  before  these  splendors  of  pleating  and  draping. 
It  compared,  advantageously,  in  her  mind,  with  a  brown 
velvet  suit  whose  wearer  looked  with  amusement  in  her 
eyes  at  Sally's  forlorn  figure.  If  she  only  had  on  her 
brown  delaine,  she  felt  that  she  could  walk  more  confident 
ly  through  this  strangeness.  But,  nervously  snatching  her 
bonnet  and  her  money,  she  had,  in  fact,  heard  Mrs.  King's 
tread  on  the  attic  stairs,  and  had  not  dared  to  stop  longer 
to  secure  it. 

She  knew  they  were  out  on  a  search  for  a  new  dress  for 
her  now,  but  she  felt  a  sorrowful  conviction  that  nothing 
could  be  found  which  could  fully  make  up  for  the  loss  of 
her  own  beloved  best  gown.  And  then  Sally  was  not  very 
quick  with  her  needle ;  she  thought  with  dismay  of  the 
making  up;  the  possibility  of  being  aided  by  a  dressmaker, 
or  a  ready-made  costume,  never  entered  her  simple  mind. 

Jake  shambled  loosely  down  the  street,  and  she  followed 
meekly  after  him,  a  pace  or  two  behind. 

At  length  the  peddler  stopped  before  a  large  establish 
ment,  in  whose  windows  some  ready-made  ladies'  garments 
were  displayed.  "  Here  we  air,"  said  he,  triumphantly. 

Sally  stepped  weakly  after  him  up  the  broad  steps. 

One  particular  dress  in  the  window  had  excited  the  ped 
dler's  warm  admiration.  It  was  a  trifle  florid  in  design, 
with  dashes  of  red  here  and  there. 


1 4  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

Sally  eyed  it  a  little  doubtfully,  when  the  clerk,  at  Jake's 
'•request,  had  taken  it  down  to  show  them.  Untutored  as 
tier  taste  was,  she  turned  as  naturally  to  quiet  plumage  as 
a  wood-pigeon.  The  red  slashes  rather  alarmed  her.  How 
ever,  she  said  nothing  against  her  husband's  decision  to 
purchase  the  dress.  She  turned  pale  at  the  price;  it  was 
nearly  the  whole  of  her  precious  store.  But  she  took  up 
her  stocking-purse  determinedly  when  Jake  began  exam 
ining  his  pocket-book. 

"  I  pays  for  this,"  said  she  to  the  clerk,  lifting  up  her 
little  face  to  him  with  scared  resolve. 

"Why,  no  you  don't,  little  un  !"  cried  Jake,  catching  hold 
of  her  arm.  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  pay  for  it,  o'  course.  It's  a 
pity  ef  I  can't  buy  my  own  wife  a  dress." 

Sally  flushed  all  over  her  lean  throat,  but  she  resolutely 
held  out  the  money. 

"No,"  she  said  again,  shaking  her  head  obstinately,  "/ 
pays  for  it." 

The  peddler  let  her  have  her  way  then,  though  he  bit  his 
scraggy  mustache  with  amaze  and  vexation  as  he  watched 
her  pay  the  bill,  and  stare  with  a  sort  of  frightened  wistful- 
ness  after  her  beloved  money  as  it  disappeared  in  the  clerk's 
grasp. 

When  they  emerged  from  the  store,  the  new  dress  under 
his  arm,  he  burst  out,  "What  on  airth  made  you  do  that, 
little  un?" 

"  Other  folks  does  that  way.  When  they  gits  merried 
they  buys  their  own  close,  ef  they  kin." 

"  But  it  took  pretty  nearly  all  you'd  got,  didn't  it  ?" 

"That  ain't  no  matter." 

The  peddler  stared  at  her,  half  in  consternation,  half  in 
admiration. 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  ,5 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  guess  youVe  got  a  little  will  o'  your 
own,  arter  all,  little  un,  an'  I'm  glad  on't.  A  woman'd  orter 
hev  a  little  will  to  back  her  sweetness ;  it's  all  too  soft  an' 
slushy  otherways.  But  I'll  git  even  with  you  about  the  dress." 

Which  he  proceeded  to  do  by  ushering  his  startled  bride 
into  the  next  dry-goods  establishment,  and  purchasing  a 
dress  pattern  of  robin's-egg  blue  silk,  and  a  delicate  white 
bonnet.  Sally,  however,  insisted  on  buying  a  plain  sun-hat 
with  the  remainder  of  her  own  money.  She  was  keenly 
alive  to  the  absurdity  and  peril  of  that  airy  white  structure 
on  the  top  of  a  tin-cart. 

The  pair  remained  in  Derby  about  a  week;  then  they 
started  forth  on  their  travels,  the  blue  silk,  which  a  Derby 
dressmaker  had  made  up  after  the  prevailing  mode,  and 
the  white  bonnet,  stowed  away  in  a  little  new  trunk  in  the 
body  of  the  cart. 

The  peddler,  having  only  himself  to  consult  as  to  his  mo 
tions,  struck  a  new  route  now.  Sally  wished  to  keep  away 
from  her  late  mistress's  vicinity.  She  had  always  a  ner 
vous  dread  of  meeting  her  in  some  unlikely  fashion. 

She  wrote  a  curious  little  ill-spelled  note  to  her,  at  the 
first  town  where  they  stopped  after  leaving  Derby.  Whether 
or  not  Mrs.  King  was  consoled  and  mollified  by  it  she 
never  knew. 

Their  way  still  lay  through  a  thinly  settled  country.  The 
tin-peddler  found  readier  customers  in  those  farmers'  wives 
who  were  far  from  stores.  It  was  late  spring.  Often  they 
rode  for  a  mile  or  two  through  the  lovely  fresh  woods,  with 
out  coming  to  a  single  house. 

The  girl  had  never  heard  of  Arcadia,  but,  all  unexpressed 
to  herself,  she  was  riding  through  it  under  gold -green 
boughs,  to  the  sweet,  broken  jangling  of  tin-ware. 


1 6  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

When  they  stopped  to  trade  at  the  farmhouses,  how 
proudly  she  sat,  a  new  erectness  in  her  slender  back,  and 
held  her  husband's  horse  tightly  while  he  talked  with  the 
woman  of  the  house,  with  now  and  then  a  careful  glance 
towards  her  to  see  if  she  were  safe.  They  always  contrived 
to  bring  up,  on  a  Sabbath-day,  at  some  town  where  there 
was  a  place  of  worship.  Then  the  blue  silk  and  the  white 
bonnet  were  taken  reverently  from  their  hiding-place,  and 
Sally,  full  of  happy  consciousness,  went  to  church  with  her 
husband  in  all  her  bridal  bravery. 

These  two  simple  pilgrims,  with  all  the  beauty  and 
grace  in  either  of  them  turned  only  towards  each  other, 
and  seen  rightly  only  in  each  other's  untutored,  uncritical 
eyes,  had  journeyed  together  blissfully  for  about  three 
months,  when  one  afternoon  Jake  came  out  of  a  little  coun 
try  tavern,  where  they  had  proposed  stopping  for  the  night, 
with  a  pale  face.  Sally  had  been  waiting  on  the  cart  out 
side  until  he  should  see  if  they  could  be  accommodated. 
He  jumped  up  beside  her  and  took  the  lines. 

"We'll  go  on  to  Ware,"  he  said,  in  a  dry  voice  ;  "  it's  only 
three  mile  further.  They're  full  here." 

Jake  drove  rapidly  along,  an  awful  look  on  his  homely 
face,  giving  it  the  beauty  of  tragedy. 

Sally  kept  looking  up  at  him  with  pathetic  wonder,  but 
he  never  looked  at  her  or  spoke  till  they  reached  the  last 
stretch  of  woods  before  Ware  village.  Then,  just  before 
they  left  the  leafy  cover,  he  slackened  his  speed  a  little, 
and  threw  his  arm  around  her. 

"See  here,  little  un,"  he  said,  brokenly.  "You've — got 
— considerable  backbone,  'ain't  you  ?  Ef  anything  awful 
should  happen,  it  wouldn't — kill  you — you'd  bear  up?" 

"  Ef  you  told  me  to." 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  ^ 

He  caught  at  her  words  eagerly.  "  I  would  tell  you  to, 
little  un — I  do  tell  you  to,"  he  cried.  "  Ef  anything  awful 
ever  should — happen — you'll  remember  that  I  told  you  to 
bear  up." 

"Yes,  I'll  bear  up."  Then  she  clung  to  him,  trembling. 
"Oh,  what  is  it,  Jake?" 

"Never  mind  now,  little  un,"  he  answered ;  "  p'rhaps 
nothin'  awful's  goin'  to  happen  ;  I  didn't  say  thar  was. 
Chirk  up  an'  give  us  a  kiss,  an'  look  at  that  'ere  sky  thar, 
all  pink  an'  yaller." 

He  tried  to  be  cheerful,  and  comfort  her  with  joking  en 
dearments  then,  but  the  awful  lines  in  his  face  stayed  rigid 
and  unchanged  under  the  smiles. 

Sally,  however,  had  not  much  discernment,  and  little  of 
the  sensitiveness  of  temperament  which  takes  impressions 
of  coming  evil.  She  soon  recovered  her  spirits,  and  was 
unusually  merry,  for  her,  the  whole  evening,  making,  out  of 
the  excess  of  her  innocence  and  happiness,  several  little 
jokes,  which  made  Jake  laugh  loyally,  and  set  his  stricken 
face  harder  the  next  minute. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  he  took  out  his  pocket-book 
and  displayed  his  money,  and  counted  it  jokingly.  Then 
he  spoke,  in  a  careless,  casual  manner,  of  a  certain  sum  he 
had  deposited  in  a  country  bank,  and  how,  if  he  were  taken 
sick  and  needed  it,  Sally  could  draw  it  out  as  well  as  he. 
Then. he  spoke  of  the  value  of  his  stock  in  trade  and  horse 
and  cart.  When  they  went  to  bed  that  night  he  had  told 
his  wife,  without  her  suspecting  he  was  telling  her,  all  about 
his  affairs. 

She  fell  asleep  as  easily  as  a  child.  Jake  lay  rigid  and 
motionless  till  he  had  listened  an  hour  to  her  regular  breath 
ing.  Then  he  rose  softly,  lighted  a  candle,  which  he  shaded 


!8  A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

from  her  face,  and  sat  down  at  a  little  table  with  a  pen 
and  paper.  He  wrote  painfully,  with  cramped  muscles,  his 
head  bent  on  one  side,  following  every  movement  of  his 
pen,  yet  with  a  confident  steadiness  which  seemed  to  show 
that  all  the  subject-matter  had  been  learned  by  heart  before 
hand.  Then  he  folded  the  paper  carefully  around  a  little 
book  which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  and  approached  the 
bed,  keeping  his  face  turned  away  from  his  sleeping  wife. 
He  laid  the  little  package  on  his  vacant  pillow,  still  keep 
ing  his  face  aside. 

Then  he  got  into  his  clothes  quickly,  his  head  turned  per 
sistently  from  the  bed,  and  opened  the  door  softly,  and  went 
out,  never  once  looking  back. 

When  Sally  awoke  the  next  morning  she  found  her 
husband  gone,  and  the  little  package  on  the  pillow.  She 
opened  it,  more  curious  than  frightened.  There  was  a  note 
folded  around  a  bank-book.  Sally  spelled  out  the  note  la 
boriously,  with  whitening  lips  and  dilating  eyes.  It  was  a 
singular  composition,  its  deep  feeling  pricking  through  its 
illiterate  stiffness. 

"DEAR  WIFE, — I've  got  to  go  and  leve  you.  It's  the  only  way.  Ef 
I  kin  ever  come  back,  I  will.  I  told  you  bout  my  bizness  last  night. 
You'd  better  drive  the  cart  to  Derby  to  that  Mister  Arms  I  told  you 
bout,  an'  he'll  help  you  sell  it  an'  the  hoss.  Tell  him  your  husband  had 
to  go  away,  an'  left  them  orders.  I've  left  you  my  bank-book,  so  you 
can  git  the  money  out  of  the  bank  the  way  I  told  you,  an'  my  watch  an' 
pocket-book  is  under  the  pillow.  I  left  you  all  the  money,  cept  what 
little  I  couldn't  git  long  without.  You'd  better  git  boarded  somewhar 
in  Derby.  You'll  hev  enough  money  to  keep  you  awhile,  an'  I'll  send 
you  some  more  when  that's  gone,  ef  I  hev  to  work  my  ringers  to  the 
bone.  Don't  ye  go  to  worryin'  an'  workin'  hard.  An'  bear  up.  Don't 
forgit  thet  you  promised  me  to  bear  up.  When  you  gits  to  feelin'  awful 
bad,  an'  you  will,  jest  say  it  over  to  yourself — '  He  told  me  to  bear  up, 
an'  I  said  as  I  would  bear  up.'  Scuse  poor  writin'  an'  a  bad  pen. 

"Yours  till  death,  JAKE  RUSSELL." 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  !9 

When  Sally  had  read  the  letter  quite  through,  she  sat 
still  a  few  minutes  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  lean,  round- 
shouldered  figure  showing  painfully  through  her  clinging 
night-dress,  her  eyes  staring  straight  before  her. 

Then  she  rose,  dressed  herself,  put  the  bank-book,  with 
the  letter  folded  around  it,  and  her  husband's  pocket-book, 
in  her  bosom,  and  went  down-stairs  quietly.  Just  before 
she  went  out  her  room  door  she  paused  with  her  hand  on 
the  latch,  and  muttered  to  herself,  "  He  told  me  to  bear  up, 
an'  I  said  as  I  would  bear  up." 

She  sought  the  landlord  to  pay  her  bill,  and  found  that 
it  was  already  paid,  and  that  her  recreant  husband  had 
smoothed  over  matters  in  one  direction  for  her  by  telling 
the  landlord  that  he  was  called  away  on  urgent  business, 
and  that  his  wife  was  to  take  the  tin-cart  next  morning,  and 
meet  him  at  a  certain  point. 

So  she  drove  away  on  her  tin-cart  in  solitary  state  with 
out  exciting  any  of  the  wondering  comments  which  would 
have  been  agony  to  her. 

When  she  gathered  up  the  lines  and  went  rattling  down 
the  country  road,  if  ever  there  was  a  zealous  disciple  of  a 
new  religion,  she  was  one.  Her  prophet  was  her  raw-boned 
peddler  husband,  and  her  creed  and  whole  confession  of 
faith  his  parting  words  to  her. 

She  did  not  take  the  road  to  Derby ;  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  about  that  as  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  after 
reading  the  letter.  She  drove  straight  along  the  originally 
prescribed  route,  stopping  at  the  farmhouses,  taking  rags 
and  selling  tin,  just  as  she  had  seen  her  husband  do.  There 
were  much  astonishment  and  many  curious  questions  among 
her  customers.  A  woman  running  a  tin-cart  was  an  un 
precedented  spectacle,  but  she  explained  matters,  with  meek 


20  A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

dignity,  to  all  who  questioned  her.  Her  husband  had  gone 
away,  and  she  was  to  attend  to  his  customers  until  he  should 
return.  She  could  not  always  quite  allay  the  suspicion  that 
there  must  needs  be  something  wrong,  but  she  managed  the 
trading  satisfactorily,  and  gave  good  bargains,  and  so  went 
on  her  way  unmolested.  But  not  a  farmyard  did  she  enter 
or  leave  without  the  words  sounding  in  her  beating  little 
heart,  like  a  strong,  encouraging  chant,  "  He  told  me  to 
bear  up,  an'  I  said  as  I  would  bear  up." 

When  her  stock  ran  low,  she  drove  to  Derby  to  replenish 
it.  Here  she  had  opposition  from  the  dealers,  but  her  al 
most  abnormal  persistence  overcame  it. 

She  showed  Jake's  letter  to  Mr.  Arms,  the  tin-dealer  with 
whom  she  traded,  and  he  urged  her  to  take  up  with  the  ad 
vice  in  it,  promising  her  a  good  bargain  ;  but  she  was  reso 
lute. 

Soon  she  found  that  she  was  doing  as  well  as  her  hus 
band  had  done,  if  not  better.  Her  customers,  after  they 
had  grown  used  to  the  novelty  of  a  tinwoman,  instead  of  a 
tinman,  liked  her.  In  addition  to  the  regular  stock,  she 
carried  various  little  notions  needed  frequently  by  house 
wives,  such  as  pins,  needles,  thread,  etc. 

She  oftener  stayed  at  a  farmhouse  overnight  than  a  tav 
ern,  and  frequently  stopped  over  at  one  a  few  days  in  severe 
weather. 

After  her  trip  to  Derby  she  always  carried  a  little  pistol, 
probably  more  to  guard  Jake's  watch  and  property  than 
herself. 

Whatever  money  she  did  not  absolutely  require  for  cur 
rent  expenses  went  to  swell  Jake's  little  hoard  in  the  Derby 
bank.  During  the  three  years  she  kept  up  her  lonely  trav 
elling  little  remittances  came  directed  to  her  from  time  to 


A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  21 

time,  in  the  care  of  Mr.  Arms.  When  one  came,  Sally  cried 
pitifully,  and  put  it  into  the  bank  with  the  rest. 

She  never  gave  up  expecting  her  husband.  She  never 
woke  up  one  morning  without  the  hope  in  her  heart  that 
he  would  come  that  day.  Every  golden  dawn  showed  a 
fair  possibility  to  her,  and  so  did  every  red  sunset.  She 
scanned  every  distant,  approaching  figure  in  (the  sweet  coun 
try  roads  with  the  half  conviction  in  her  heart  that  it  was 
he,  and  when  nearness  dispelled  the  illusion,  her  heart 
bounded  bravely  back  from  its  momentary  sinking,  and  she 
looked  ahead  for  another  traveller. 

Still  he  did  not  come  for  three  years  from  the  spring  he 
went  away.  Except  through  the  money  remittances,  which 
gave  no  clew  but  the  New  York  postmark  on  the  envelope, 
she  had  not  heard  from  him. 

One  June  afternoon  she,  a  poor  lonely  pilgrim,  now  with 
out  her  beloved  swain,  driving  through  her  old  Arcadian  soli 
tudes,  whose  enchanted  meaning  was  lost  to  her,  heard  a 
voice  from  behind  calling  to  her,  above  the  jangling  of  tin, 
"Sally!  Sally!  Sally!" 

She  turned,  and  there  he  was,  running  after  her.  She 
turned  her  head  quickly,  and,  stopping  the  horse,  sat  per 
fectly  still,  her  breath  almost  gone  with  suspense.  She  did 
not  dare  look  again  for  fear  she  had  not  seen  aright. 

The  hurrying  steps  came  nearer  and  nearer ;  she  looked 
when  they  came  abreast  the  cart.  It  was  he.  It  always 
seemed  to  her  that  she  would  have  died  if  it  -had  not  been, 
that  time. 

"Jake!  Jake!" 

"Oh,  Sally!" 

He  was  up  on  the  seat  before  she  could  breathe  again, 
and  his  arms  around  her. 


22  A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

"Jake,  I  did— bear  up— I  did." 

"  I  know  you  did,  little  un.  Mr.  Arms  told  me  all  about 
it.  Oh,  you  dear  little  un,  you  poor  little  un,  a-drivin'  round 
on  this  cart  all  alone  !" 

Jake  laid  his  cheek  against  Sally's  and  sobbed. 

"  Don't  cry,  Jake.  I've  aimed  money,  I  hev,  an1  it's  in 
the  bank  for  you." 

"Oh,  you  blessed  little  un  !  Sally,  they  said  hard  things 
'bout  me  to  you  in  Derby,  didn't  they?" 

She  started  violently  at  that.  There  was  one  thing  which 
had  been  said  to  her  in  Derby,  and  the  memory  of  it  had 
been  a  repressed  terror  ever  since. 

"  Yes  :  they  said  as  how  you'd  run  off  with — another 
woman." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  didn't  believe  it." 

"I  did,  Sally." 

"Well,  you've  come  back." 

"'Afore  I  merried  you  I'd  been  merried  afore.  By  all 
that's  good  an'  great,  little  un,  I  thought  my  wife  was  dead. 
Her  folks  said  she  was.  When  I  come  home  from  pecldlin' 
one  time,  she  was  gone,  an'  they  said  she  was  off  on  a  visit. 
I  found  out  in  a  few  weeks  she'd  run  off  with  another  fel 
low.  I  went  off  peddlin1  agin  without  carin'  much  what  be 
come  of  me.  'Bout  a  year  arterwards  I  saw  her  death  in  a 
paper,  an'  I  wrote  to  her  folks,  an'  they  said  'twas  true. 
They  were  a  bad  lot,  the  whole  of  'em.  I  got  took  in.  But 
she  had  a  mighty  pretty  face,  an'  a  tongue  like  honey,  an'  I 
s'pose  I  was  green.  Three  year  ago,  when  I  went  into 
that  'ere  tavern  in  Grover,  thar  she  was  in  the  kitchin  a- 
cookin'.  The  fellow  she  run  off  with  had  left  her,  an'  she'd 
been  trying  to  hunt  me  up.  She  was  awful  poor,  an'  had 


A   HUMBLE  ROMANCE.  23 

come  across  this  place  an'  took  it.  She  was  allers  a  good 
cook,  an'  she  suited  the  customers  fust-rate.  I  guess  they 
liked  to  see  her  pretty  face  'round  too,  confound  her! 

"Well,  little  un,  she  knew  me  right  off,  an'  hung  on  to 
me,  an'  cried,  an'  begged  me  to  forgive  her ;  and  when  she 
spied  you  a-settin'  thar  on  the  cart,  she  tore.  I  hed  to  hold 
her  to  keep  her  from  goin'  out  an'  tellin'  you  the  whole 
story.  I  thought  you'd  die  ef  she  did.  I  didn't  know  then 
how  you  could  bear  up,  little  un.  Ef  you  'ain't  got  back 
bone  !" 

"Jake,  I  did  bear  up." 

"  I  know  you  did,  you  blessed  little  cretur.  Well,  she  said 
ef  I  didn't  leave  you,  an'  go  with  her,  she'd  expose  me.  As 
soon  as  she  found  she'd  got  the  weapons  in  her  own  hands, 
an'  could  hev  me  up  for  bigamy,  she  didn't  cry  so  much,  an' 
wa'n't  quite  so  humble. 

"  Well,  little  un,  then  I  run  off  an'  left  you.  I  couldn't 
stay  with  you  ef  you  wa'n't  my  wife,  an'  'twas  all  the  way  to 
stop  her  tongue.  I  met  her  that  night,  an'  we  went  to  New 
York.  I  got  lodgin's  for  her  j  then  I  went  to  work  in  a 
box  factory,  an'  supported  her.  I  never  went  nigh  her  from 
one  week's  end  to  the  other;  I  couldn't  do  it  without  hevin' 
murder  in  my  heart ;  but  I  kep'  her  in  money.  Every  scrap 
I  could  save  I  sent  to  you,  but  I  used  to  lay  awake  nights, 
worryin'  for  fear  you'd  want  things.  Well,  it's  all  over.  She 
died  a  month  ago,  an'  I  saw  her  buried." 

"I  knowecl  she  was  dead  when  you  begun  to  tell  about 
her,  because  you'd  come." 

"  Yes,  she's  dead  this  time,  an'  I'm  glad.  Don't  you  look 
scared,  little  un.  I  hope  the  Lord  '11  forgive  me,")  but  7V» 
glad.  She  was  a  bad  un,  you  know,  Sally." 

"Was  she  sorry?" 


24  A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE. 

"  I  don'  know,  little  un." 

Sally's  head  was  resting  peacefully  on  Jake's  shoulder ; 
golden  flecks  of  light  sifted  down  on  them  through  the  rus 
tling  maple  and  locust  boughs  ;  the  horse,  with  bent  head, 
was  cropping  the  tender  young  grass  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

"Now  we'll  start  up  the  horse,  an'  go  to  Derby  an'  git 
merried  over  agin,  Sally." 

She  raised  her  head  suddenly,  and  looked  up  at  him 
with  eager  eyes. 

"Jake." 

"Well,  little  un?" 

"  Oh,  Jake,  my  blue  silk  dress  an'  the  white  bonnet  is  in 
the  trunk  in  the  cart  jest  the  same,  an'  I  can  git  'em  out,  an' 
put  'em  on  under  the  trees  thar,  an'  wear  'em  to  be  married 
in!" 


TWO  OLD  LOVERS. 

LEYDEN  was  emphatically  a  village  of  cottages,  and  each 
of  them  built  after  one  of  two  patterns :  either  the  front 
door  was  on  the  right  side,  in  the  corner  of  a-  little  piazza 
extending  a  third  of  the  length  of  the  house,  with  the  main 
roof  jutting  over  it,  or  the  piazza  stretched  across  the  front, 
and  the  door  was  in  the  centre. 

The  cottages  were  painted  uniformly  white,  and  had 
blinds  of  a  bright  spring-green  color.  There  was  a  little 
flower-garden  in  front  of  each  ;  the  beds  were  laid  out  artis 
tically  in  triangles,  hearts,  and  rounds,  and  edged  with 
box;  boys'-love,  sweet-williams,  and  pinks  were  the  fash 
ionable  and  prevailing  flowers. 

There  was  a  general  air  of  cheerful  though  humble  pros 
perity  about  the  place,  which  it  owed,  and  indeed  its  very 
existence  also,  to  the  three  old  weather-beaten  boot-and- 
shoe  factories  which  arose  stanchly  and  importantly  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  natty  little  white  cottages. 

Years  before,  when  one  Hiram  Strong  put  up  his  three 
factories  for  the  manufacture  of  the  rough  shoe  which  the 
working-man  of  America  wears,  he  hardly  thought  he  was 
also  gaining  for  himself  the  honor  of  founding  Ley  den. 
He  chose  the  site  for  his  buildings  mainly  because  they 
would  be  easily  accessible  to  the  railway  which,  stretched 


2  6  TWO   OLD  LOVERS. 

to  the  city,  sixty  miles  distant.  At  first  the  workmen  came 
on  the  cars  from  the  neighboring  towns,  but  after  a  while 
they  became  tired  of  that,  and  one  alter  another  built  for 
himself  a  cottage,  and  established  his  family  and  his  house 
hold  belongings  near  the  scene  of  his  daily  labors.  So 
gradually  Leyden  grew.  A  built  his  cottage  like  C,  and 
B  built  his  like  D,  They  painted  them  white,  and  hung 
the  green  blinds,  and  laid  out  their  flower-beds  in  front  and 
their  vegetable-beds  at  the  back.  By  and  by  came  a  church 
and  a  store  and  a  post-office  to  pass,  and  Leyden  was  a 
full-fledged  town. 

That  was  a  long  time  ago.  The  shoe-factories  had  long 
passed  out  of  the  hands  of  Hiram  Strong's  heirs ;  he  him 
self  was  only  a  memory  on  the  earth.  The  business  was 
not  quite  as  wide-awake  and  vigorous  as  when  in  its  first 
youth  ;  it  droned  a  little  now  ;  there  was  not  quite  so  much 
bustle  and  hurry  as  formerly.  The  factories  were  never 
lighted  up  of  an  evening  on  account  of  overwork,  and  the 
workmen  found  plenty  of  time  for  pleasant  and  salutary 
gossip  over  their  cutting  and  pegging.  But  this  did  not 
detract  in  the  least  from  the  general  cheerfulness  and  pros 
perity  of  Leyden.  The  inhabitants  still  had  all  the  work 
they  needed  to  supply  the  means  necessary  for  their  small 
comforts,  arid  they  were  contented.  They  too  had  begun 
to  drone  a  little  like  the  factories.  "As  slow  as  Leyden  " 
was  the  saying  among  the  faster-going  towns  adjoining 
theirs.  Every  morning  at  seven  the  old  men,  young  men, 
and  boys,  in  their  calico  shirt-sleeves,  their  faces  a  little 
pale — perhaps  from  their  in-door  life — filed  unquestioningly 
out  of  the  back  doors  of  the  white  cottages,  treading  still 
deeper  the  well-worn  foot-paths  stretching  around  the  sides 
of  the  houses,  and  entered  the  factories.  They  were  great, 


TWO   OLD  LOVERS.  27 

ugly  wooden  buildings,  with  wings  which  they  had  grown 
in  their  youth  jutting  clumsily  from  their  lumbering  shoul 
ders.  Their  outer  walls  were  black  and  grimy,  streaked 
and  splashed  and  patched  with  red  paint  in  every  variety 
of  shade,  accordingly  as  the  original  hue  was  tempered 
with  smoke  or  the  beatings  of  the  storms  of  many  years. 

The  men  worked  peacefully  and  evenly  in  the  shoe-shops 
all  day;  and  the  women  stayed  at  home  and  kept  the  lit 
tle  white  cottages  tidy,  cooked  the  meals,  and  washed  the 
clothes,  and  did  the  sewing.  For  recreation  the  men  sat 
on  the  piazza  in  front  of  Barker's  store  of  an  evening,  and 
gossiped  or  discussed  politics ;  and  the  women  talked  over 
their  neighbors'  fences,  or  took  their  sewing  into  their 
neighbors'  of  an  afternoon. 

People  died  in  Leyden  as  elsewhere;  and  here  and  there 
was  a  little  white  cottage  whose  narrow  foot-path  lead 
ing  round  to  its  back  door  its  master  would  never  tread 
again. 

In  one  of  these  lived  Widow  Martha  Brewster  and  her 
daughter  Maria.  Their  cottage  was  one  of  those  which 
had  its  piazza,  across  the  front.  Every  summer  they  trained 
morning-glories  over  it,  and  planted  their  little  garden 
with  the  flower-seeds  popular  in  Leyden.  There  was  not 
a  cottage  in  the  whole  place  whose  surroundings  were 
neater  and  gayer  than  theirs,  for  all  they  were  only  two 
women,  and  two  old  women  at  that ;  for  Widow  Mar 
tha  Brewster  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  eighty,  and  her 
daughter,  Maria  Brewster,  near  sixty.  The  two  had  lived 
alone  since  Jacob  Brewster  died  and  stopped  going  to 
the  factory,  some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  had  left  them 
this  particular  white  cottage,  and  a  snug  little  sum  in  the 
savings-bank  besides,  for  the  whole  Brewster  family  had 


28  TWO  OLD  LOVERS. 

worked  and  economized  all  their  long  lives.  The  women 
had  corded  boots  at  home,  while  the  man  had  worked  in 
the  shop,  and  never  spent  a  cent  without  thinking  of  it 
overnight. 

Leyden  folks  all  thought  that  David  Emmons  would 
marry  Maria  Brewster  when  her  father  died.  "David  can 
rent  his  house,  and  go  to  live  with  Maria  and  her  mother," 
said  they,  with  an  affectionate  readiness  to  arrange  matters 
for  them.  But  he  did  not.  Every  Sunday  night  at  eight 
o'clock  punctually,  the  form  of  David  Emmons,  arrayed  in 
his  best  clothes,  with  his  stiff  white  dickey,  and  a  nosegay 
in  his  button-hole,  was  seen  to  advance  up  the  road  towards 
Maria  Brewster's,  as  he  had  been  seen  to  advance  every 
Sunday  night  for  the  last  twenty-five  years,  but  that  was 
all.  He  manifested  not  the  slightest  intention  of  carry 
ing  out  people's  judicious  plans  for  his  welfare  and  Ma 
ria's. 

She  did  not  seem  to  pine  with  hope  deferred ;  people 
could  not  honestly  think  there  was  any  occasion  to  pity 
her  for  her  lover's  tardiness.  A  cheerier  woman  never 
lived.  She  was  literally  bubbling  over  with  jollity.  Round- 
faced  and  black-eyed,  with  a  funny  little  bounce  of  her 
whole  body  when  she  walked,  she  was  the  merry  feature 
of  the  whole  place. 

Her  mother  was  now  too  feeble,  but  Maria  still  corded 
boots  for  the  factories  as  of  old.  David  Emmons,  who  was 
quite  sixty,  worked  in  them,  as  he  had  from  his  youth.  He 
was  a  slender,  mild-faced  old  man,  with  a  fringe  of  gray 
yellow  beard  around  his  chin  ;  his  head  was  quite  bald. 
Years  ago  he  had  been  handsome,  they  said,  but  somehow 
people  had  always  laughed  at  him  a  little,  although  they 
all  liked  him.  "The  slowest  of  all  the  slow  Leydenites" 


TWO  OLD  LOVERS.  29 

outsiders  called  him,  and  even  the  "  slow  Leydenites " 
poked  fun  at  this  exaggeration  of  themselves.  It  was  an 
old  and  well-worn  remark  that  it  took  David  Emmons  an 
hour  to  go  courting,  and  that  he  was  always  obliged  to 
leave  his  own  home  at  seven  in  order  to  reach  Maria's  at 
eight,  and  there  was  a  standing  joke  that  the  meeting-house 
passed  him  one  morning  on  his  way  to  the  shop. 

David  heard  the  chaffing  of  course — there  is  very  little 
delicacy  in  matters  of  this  kind  among  country  people — 
but  he  took  it  all  in  good  part.  He  would  laugh  at  him 
self  with  the  rest,  but  there  was  something  touching  in  his 
deprecatory  way  of  saying  sometimes,  "  Well,  I  don't  know 
how  'tis,  but  it  don't  seem  to  be  in  my  natur'  to  do  any 
other  way.  I  suppose  I  was  born  without  the  faculty  of 
gittin'  along  quick  in  this  world.  You'll  have  to  git  be 
hind  and  push  me  a  leetle,  I  reckon." 

He  owned  his  little  cottage,  which  was  one  of  the  kind 
which  had  the  piazza  on  the  right  side.  He  lived  entirely 
alone.  There  was  a  half-acre  or  so  of  land  beside  his 
house,  which  he  used  for  a  vegetable  garden.  After  and 
before  shop  hours,  in  the  dewy  evenings  and  mornings,  he 
dug  and  weeded  assiduously  between  the  green  ranks  of 
corn  and  beans.  If  David  Emmons  was  slow,  his  vegeta 
bles  were  not.  None  of  the  gardens  in  Leyden  surpassed 
his  in  luxuriant  growth.  His  corn  tasselled  out  and  his 
potato  patch  was  white  with  blossoms  as  soon  as  anybody's. 

He  was  almost  a  vegetarian  in  his  diet ;  the  products  of 
his  garde.i  spot  were  his  staple  articles  of  food.  Early  in 
the  morning  would  the  gentle  old  bachelor  set  his  pot  of 
green  things  boiling,  and  dine  gratefully  at  noon,  like  mild 
Robert  Herrick,  on  pulse  and  herbs.  His  garden  supplied 
also  his  sweetheart  and  her  mother  with  all  the  vegetables 
3 


30  TWO   OLD  LOVERS. 

they  could  use.  Many  times  in  the  course  of  a  week  could 
David  have  been  seen  slowly  moving  towards  the  Brewster 
cottage  with  a  basket  on  his  arm  well  stocked  with  the  ma 
terials  for  an  innocent  and  delicious  repast. 

But  Maria  was  not  to  be  outdone  by  her  old  lover  in 
kindly  deeds.  Not  a  Saturday  but  a  goodly  share  of  her 
weekly  baking  was  deposited,  neatly  covered  with  a  white 
crash  towel,  on  David's  little  kitchen  table.  The  surrepti 
tious  air  with  which  the  back-door  key  was  taken  from  its 
hiding-place  (which  she  well  knew)  under  the  kitchen  blind, 
the  door  unlocked  and  entered,  and  the  good  things  depos 
ited,  was  charming,  although  highly  ineffectual.  "  There 
goes  Maria  with  David's  baking,"  said  the  women,  peering 
out  of  their  windows  as  she  bounced,  rather  more  gently 
and  cautiously  than  usual,  down  the  street.  And  David 
himself  knew  well  the  ministering  angel  to  whom  these 
benefits  were  due  when  he  lifted  the  towel  and  discovered 
with  tearful  eyes  the  brown  loaves  and  flaky  pies — the 
proofs  of  his  Maria's  love  and  culinary  skill. 

Among  the  younger  and  more  irrevent  portions  of  the 
community  there  was  considerable  speculation  as  to  the 
mode  of  courtship  of  these  old  lovers  of  twenty-five  years' 
standing.  Was  there  ever  a  kiss,  a  tender  clasp  of  the 
hand,  those  usual  expressions  of  affection  between  sweet 
hearts  ? 

Some  of  the  more  daring  spirits  had  even  gone  so  far  as 
to  commit  the  manifest  impropriety  of  peeping  in  Maria's 
parlor  windows  ;  but  they  had  only  seen  David  sitting  quiet 
and  prim  on  the  little  slippery  horse-hair  sofa,  and  Maria 
by  the  table,  rocking  slowly  in  her  little  cane-seated  rocker. 
Did  Maria  ever  leave  her  rocker  and  sit  on  that  slippery 
horse-hair  sofa  by  David's  side  ?  They  never  knew ;  but 


TWO  OLD  LOVERS.  3! 

she  never  did.  There  was  something  laughable,  and  at 
the  same  time  rather  pathetic,  about  Maria  and  David's 
courting.  All  the  outward  appurtenances  of  "  keeping'com- 
pany"  were  as  rigidly  observed  as  they  had  been  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  when  David  Emmons  first  cast  his  mild  blue 
eyes  shyly  and  lovingly  on  red-cheeked,  quick-spoken  Maria 
Brewster.  Every  Sunday  evening,  in  the  winter,  there  was 
a  fire  kindled  in  the  parlor,  the  parlor  lamp  was  lit  at  dusk 
all  the  year  round,  and  Maria's  mother  retired  early,  that 
the  young  people  might  "sit  up."  The  ''sitting  up"  was 
no  very  formidable  affair  now,  whatever  it  might  have  been 
in  the  first  stages  of  the  courtship.  The  need  of  sleep  over 
balanced  sentiment  in  those  old  lovers,  and  by  ten  o'clock 
at  the  latest  Maria's  lamp  was  out,  and  David  had  wended 
his  solitary  way  to  his  own  home. 

Leyden  people  had  a  great  curiosity  to  know  if  David 
had  ever  actually  popped  the  question  to  Maria,  or  if  his 
natural  slowness  was  at  fault  in  this  as  in  other  things. 
Their  curiosity  had  been  long  exercised  in  vain,  but  Widow 
Brewster,  as  she  waxed  older,  grew  loquacious,  and  one 
day  told  a  neighbor,  who  had  called  in  her  daughter's 
absence,  that  "  David  had  never  reely  come  to  the  p'int. 
She  supposed  he  would  some  time  ;  for  her  part,  she  thought 
he  had  better ;  but  then,  after  all,  she  knowed  Maria  didn't 
care,  and  maybe  'twas  jest  as  well  as  'twas,  only  sometimes 
she  was  afeard  she  should  never  live  to  see  the  weddin'  if 
they  wasn't  spry."  Then  there  had  been  hints  concerning 
a  certain  pearl-colored  silk  which  Maria,  having  a  good 
chance  to  get  at  a  bargain,  had  purchased  some  twenty 
years  ago,  when  she  thought,  from  sundry  remarks,  that 
David  was  coming  to  the  point ;  and  it  was  further  inti 
mated  that  the  silk  had  been  privately  made  up  ten  years 


32  TWO   OLD  LOVERS. 

since,  when  Maria  had  again  surmised  that  the  point  was 
about  being  reached.  The  neighbor  went  home  in  a  state 
of  great  delight,  having  by  skilful  manoeuvring  actually  ob 
tained  a  glimpse  of  the  pearl-colored  silk. 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  Maria  did  not  lay  David's  tardi 
ness  in  putting  the  important  question  very  much  to  heart. 
She  was  too  cheerful,  too  busy,  and  too  much  interested  in 
her  daily  duties  to  fret  much  about  anything.  There  was 
never  at  any  time  much  of  the  sentimental  element  in  her 
composition,  and  her  feeling  for  David  was  eminently  prac 
tical  in  its  nature.  She,  although  the  woman,  had  the 
'stronger  character  of  the  two,  and  there  was  something 
rather  mother-like  than  lover-like  in  her  affection  for  him. 
It  was  through  the  protecting  care  which  chiefly  character 
ized  her  love  that  the  only  pain  to  her  came  from  their  long 
courtship  and  postponement  of  marriage.  It  was  true  that, 
years  ago,  when  David  had  led  her  to  think,  from  certain 
hesitating  words  spoken  at  parting  one  Sunday  night,  that 
he  would  certainly  ask  the  momentous  question  soon,  her 
heart  had  gone  into  a  happy  flutter.  She  had  bought  the 
pearl-colored  silk  then. 

Years  after,  her  heart  had  fluttered  again,  but  a  little  less 
wildly  this  time.  David  almost  asked  her  another  Sunday 
night.  Then  she  had  made  up  the  pearl-colored  silk.  She 
used  to  go  and  look  at  it  fondly  and  admiringly  from  time 
to  time  ;  once  in  a  while  she  would  try  it  on  and  survey 
herself  in  the  glass,  and  imagine  herself  David's  bride — a 
faded  bride,  but  a  happy  and  a  beloved  one. 

She  looked  at  the  dress  occasionally  now,  but  a  little 
sadly,  as  the  conviction  that  she  should  never  wear  it  was 
forcing  itself  upon  her  more  and  more.  But  the  sadness 
was  always  more  for  David's  sake  than  her  own.  She  saw 


TWO   OLD  LOVERS.  33 

him  growing  an  old  man,  and  the  lonely,  uncared-for  life 
that  he  led  filled  her  heart  with  tender  pity  and  sorrow  for 
him.  She  did  not  confine  her  kind  offices  to  the  Saturday 
baking.  Every  week  his  little  house  was  tidied  and  set  to 
rights,  and  his  mending  looked  after. 

Once,  on  a  Sunday  night,  when  she  spied  a  rip  in  his 
coat,  that  had  grown  long  from  the  want  of  womanly  fingers 
constantly  at  hand,  she  had  a  good  cry  after  he  had  left 
and  she  had  gone  into  her  room.  There  was  something 
more  pitiful  to  her,  something  that  touched  her  heart  more 
deeply,  in  that  rip  in  her  lover's  Sunday  coat  than  in  all 
her  long  years  of  waiting. 

As  the  years  went  on,  it  was  sometimes  with  a  sad  heart 
that  Maria  stood  and  watched  the  poor  lonely  old  figure 
moving  slower  than  ever  down  the  street  to  his  lonely  home; 
but  the  heart  was  sad  for  him  always,  and  never  for  herself. 
She  used  to  wonder  at  him  a  little  sometimes,  though  al 
ways  with  the  most  loyal  tenderness,  that  he  should  choose 
to  lead  the  solitary,  cheerless  life  that  he  did,  to  go  back 
to  his  dark,  voiceless  home,  when  he  might  be  so  sheltered 
and  cared  for  in  his  old  age.  She  firmly  believed  that  it 
was  only  owing  to  her  lover's  incorrigible  slowness,  in  this 
as  in  everything  else.  She  never  doubted  for  an  instant 
that  he  loved  her.  Some  women  might  have  tried  hasten 
ing  matters  a  little  themselves,  but  Maria,  with  the  delicacy 
which  is  sometimes  more  inherent  in  .a  steady,  practical 
nature  like  hers  than  in  a  more  ardent  one,  would  have  lost 
her  self-respect  forever  if  she  had  done  such  a  thing. 

So  she  lived  cheerfully  along,  corded  her  boots,  though 
her  fingers  were  getting  stiff,  humored  her  mother,  who  was 
getting  feebler  and  more  childish  every  year,  and  did  the 
best  she  could  for  her  poor,  foolish  old  lover. 


34  TWO    OLD  LOVERS. 

When  David  was  seventy,  and  she  sixty-eight,  she  gave 
away  the  pearl-colored  silk  to  a  cousin's  daughter  who  was 
going  to  be  married.  The  girl  was  young  and  pretty  and 
happy,  but  she  was  poor,  and  the  silk  would  make  over  into 
a  grander  wedding  dress  for  her  than  she  could  hope  to 
obtain  in  any  other  way. 

Poor  old  Maria  smoothed  the  lustrous  folds  fondly  with 
her  withered  hands  before  sending  it  away,  and  cried  a 
little,  with  a  patient  pity  for  David  and  herself.  But  when 
a  tear  splashed  directly  on  to  the  shining  surface  of  the 
silk,  she  stopped  crying  at  once,  and  her  sorrowful  expres 
sion  changed  into  one  of  careful  scrutiny  as  she  wiped  the 
salt  drop  away  with  her  handkerchief,  and  held  the  dress 
up  to  the  light  to  be  sure  that  it  was  not  spotted.  A  prac 
tical  nature  like  Maria's  is  sometimes  a  great  boon  to  its 
I  possessor.  It  is  doubtful  if  anything  else  can  dry  a  tear 
I  as  quickly. 

Somehow  Maria  always  felt  a  little  differently  towards 
David  after  she  had  given  away  her  wedding  dress.  There 
had  always  been  a. little  tinge  of  consciousness  in  her  man 
ner  towards  him,  a  little  reserve  and  caution  before  people. 
But  after  the  wedding  dress  had  gone,  all  question  of  mar 
riage  had  disappeared  so  entirely  from  her  mind,  that  the 
delicate  considerations  born  of  it  vanished.  She  was  un 
commonly  hale  and  hearty  for  a  woman  of  her  age ;  there 
was  apparently  much  more  than  two  years'  difference  be 
tween  her  and  her  lover.  It  was  not  only  the  Saturday's 
bread  and  pie  that  she  carried  now  and  deposited  on  Da 
vid's  little  kitchen  table,  but,  openly  and  boldly,  not  caring 
who  should  see  her,  many  a  warm  dinner.  Every  day, 
after  her  own  house- work  was  done,  David's  house  was  set 
to  rights.  He  should  have  all  the  comforts  he  needed  in 


TWO  OLD  LOVERS.  35 

his  last  years,  she  determined.  That  they  were  his  last 
years  was  evident.  He  coughed,  and  now  walked  so  slowly 
from  feebleness  and  weakness  that  it  was  a  matter  of  doubt 
to  observers  whether  he  could  reach  Maria  Brewster's  be 
fore  Monday  evening. 

One  Sunday  night  he  stayed  a  little  longer  than  usual — 
the  clock  struck  ten  before  he  started.  Then  he  rose,  and 
said,  as  he  had  done  every  Sunday  evening  for  so  many 
years,  "  Well,  Maria,  I  guess  it's  about  time  for  me  to  be 
goin'." 

She  helped  him  on  with  his  coat,  and  tied  on  his  tippet. 
Contrary  to  his  usual  habit  he  stood  in  the  door,  and  hesi 
tated  a  minute — there  seemed  to  be  something  he  wanted 
to  say. 

"  Maria." 

"  Well,  David  ?" 

"  I'm  gittin'  to  be  an  old  man,  you  know,  an'  I've  allus 
been  slow-goin' ;  I  couldn't  seem  to  help  it.  There  has  been 
a  good  many  things  I  haven't  got  around  to."  The  old 
cracked  voice  quavered  painfully. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  David,  all  about  it ;  you  couldn't  help  it. 
I  wouldn't  worry  a  bit  about  it  if  I  were  you." 

"  You  don't  lay  up  anything  agin  me,  Maria  ?" 

"  No,  David." 

"  Good-night,  Maria." 

"  Good-night,  David.  I  will  fetch  you  over  some  boiled 
dinner  to-morrow." 

She  held  the  lamp  at  the  door  till  the  patient,  tottering 
old  figure  was  out  of  sight.  She  had  to  wipe  the  tears  from 
her  spectacles  in  order  to  see  to  read  her  Bible  when  she 
went  in. 

Next  morning  she  was  hurrying  up  her  housework  to  go 


3  6  TWO  OLD  LOVERS. 

over  to  David's — somehow  she  felt  a  little  anxious  about 
him  this  morning — when  there  came  a  loud  knock  at  her 
door.  When  she  opened  it,  a  boy  stood  there,  panting  for 
breath ;  he  was  David's  next  neighbor's  son. 

"Mr.  Emmons  is  sick,"  he  said,  "an5  wants  you.  I  was 
goin'  for  milk,  when  he  rapped  on  the  window.  Father  an' 
mother's  in  thar,  an'  the  doctor.  Mother  said,  tell  you  to 
hurry." 

The  news  had  spread  rapidly;  people  knew  what  it  meant 
when  they  saw  Maria  hurrying  down  the  street,  without  her 
bonnet,  her  gray  hair  flying.  One  woman  cried  when  she 
saw  her.  "  Poor  thing !  "  she  sobbed,  "  poor  thing  !" 

A  crowd  was  around  David's  cottage  when  Maria  reached 
it.  She  went  straight  in  through  the  kitchen  to  his  little 
bedroom,  and  up  to  his  side.  The  doctor  was  in  the  room, 
and  several  neighbors.  When  he  saw  Maria,  poor  old  Da 
vid  held  out  his  hand  to  her  and  smiled  feebly.  Then  he 
looked  imploringly  at  the  doctor,  then  at  the  others  in  the 
room.  The  doctor  understood,  and  said  a  word  to  them, 
and  they  filed  silently  out.  Then  he  turned  to  Maria. 
"  Be  quick,"  he  whispered. 

She  leaned  over  him.  "  Dear  David,"  she  said,  her 
wrinkled  face  quivering,  her  gray  hair  straying  over  her 
cheeks. 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  strange  wonder  in  his  glazing 
eyes.  "Maria" — a  thin,  husky  voice,  that  was  more  like 
a  wind  through  dry  corn-stalks,  said — "Maria,  I'm — dyin', 
an' — I  allers  meant  to — have  asked  you — to — marry  me." 


A   SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER. 

IT  was  quite  late  in  the  evening,  dark  and  rainy,  when  I 
arrived,  and  I  suppose  the  first  object  in  Ware,  outside  of 
my  immediate  personal  surroundings,  which  arrested  my 
attention  was  the  Munson  house.  When  I  looked  out  of 
my  window  the  next  morning  it  loomed  up  directly  oppo 
site,  across  the  road,  dark  and  moist  from  the  rain  of  the 
night  before.  There  were  so  many  elm-trees  in  front  of  it 
and  in  front  of  the  house  I  was  in,  that  the  little  pools  of 
rain-water,  still  standing  in  the  road  here  and  there,  did  not 
glisten  and  shine  at  all,  although  the  sun  was  bright  and 
quite  high.  The  house  itself  stood  back  far  enough  to  al 
low  of  a  good  square  yard  in  front,  and  was  raised  from 
the  street-level  the  height  of  a  face-wall.  Three  or  four 
steps  led  up  to  the  front  walk.  On  each  side  of  the  steps, 
growing  near  the  edge  of  the  wall,  was  an  enormous  lilac- 
tree  in  full  blossom.  I  could  see  them  tossing  their  purple 
clusters  between  the  elm  branches :  there  was  quite  a  wind 
blowing  that  morning.  A  hedge  of  lilacs,  kept  low  by 
constant  cropping,  began  at  the  blooming  lilac-trees,  and 
reached  around  the  rest  of  the  yard,  at  the  top  of  the  face- 
wall.  The  yard  was  gay  with  flowers,  laid  put  in  fantastic 
little  beds,  all  bordered  trimly  with  box.  The  house  was 
one  of  those  square,  solid,  white-painted,  green-blinded  edi- 


3  8  A  SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER. 

^"V. 

fices  which  marked  the  wealth  and  importance  of  the 
dweller  therein  a  half-century  or  so  ago,  and  still  cast  a 
dim  halo  of  respect  over  his  memory.  It  had  no  beauty 
in  itself,  being  boldly  plain  and  glaring,  like  all  of  its  kind  ; 
but  the  green  waving  boughs  of  the  elms  and  lilacs  and 
the  undulating  shadows  they  cast  toned  it  down,  and  gave 
it  an  air  of  coolness  and  quiet  and  lovely  reserve.  ,1  be 
gan  to  feel  a  sort  of  pleasant,  idle  curiosity  concerning  it 
as  I  stood  there  at  my  chamber  window,  and  after  break 
fast,  when  I  had  gone  into  the  sitting-room,  whose  front 
windows  also  faced  that  way,  I  took  occasion  to  ask  my 
hostess,  who  had  come  in  with  me,  who  lived  there. 

"  Of  course  it  is  nobody  I  have  ever  seen  or  heard  of," 
said  I  j  "  but  I  was  looking  at  the  house  this  morning,  and 
have  taken  a  fancy  to  know." 

Mrs.  Leonard  gazed  reflectively  across  at  the  house,  and 
then  at  me.  It  was  an  odd  way  she  always  had  before 
speaking. 

"There's  a  maiden  lady  lives  there,"  she  answered,  at 
length,  turning  her  gaze  from  me  to  the  house  again,  "  all 
alone ;  that  is,  all  alone  except  old  Margaret.  She's  al 
ways  been  in  the  family — ever  since  Caroline  was  a  baby, 
I  guess  :  a  faithful  old  creature  as  ever  lived,  but  she's 
pretty  feeble  now.  I  reckon  Caroline  has  to  do  pretty 
much  all  the  work,  and  I  don't  suppose  she's  much  com 
pany,  or  much  of  anything  but  a  care.  There  she  comes 
now." 

"  Who  ?"  said  I,  feeling  a  little  bewildered. 

"  Why,  Caroline — Caroline  Munson." 

A  slim,  straight  little  woman,  with  a  white  pitcher  in  her 
hand,  was  descending  the  stone  steps  between  the  bloom 
ing  lilac-trees  opposite.  She  had  on  a  lilac-colored  calico 


A   SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER.  39 

dress  and  a  white  apron.  She  wore  no  hat  or  bonnet,  and 
her  gray  hair  seemed  to  be  arranged  in  a  cluster  of  soft 
little  curls  at  the  top  of  her  head.  Her  face,  across  the 
street,  looked  like  that  of  a  woman  of  forty,  fair  and  pleas 
ing. 

"  She's  going  down  to  Mrs.  Barnes's  after  milk,"  Mrs. 
Leonard  explained.  "She  always  goes  herself,  every 
morning  just  about  this  time.  She  never  sends  old  Mar 
garet  j  I  reckon  she  ain't  fit  to  go.  I  guess  she  can  do 
some  things  about  the  house,  but  when  it  comes  to  travel 
ling  outside  Caroline  has  to  do  it  herself." 

Then  Mrs.  Leonard  was  called  into  the  kitchen,  and  I 
thought  over  the  information,  at  once  vague  and  definite,  I 
had  received,  and  watched  Miss  Caroline  Munson  walk 
down  the  shady  street.  She  had  a  pretty,  gentle  gait. 

About  a  week  later  I  received  an  invitation  to  take  tea 
with  her.  I  was  probably  never  more  surprised  in  my 
life,  as  I  had  not  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  her.  I 
had  sometimes  happened  to  watch  her  morning  pilgrim 
ages  down  the  street  after  milk,  and  occasionally  had  ob 
served  her  working  over  her  flower-beds  in  her  front  yard. 
That  was  all,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned  ;  and  I  did  not  sup 
pose  she  knew  there  was  such  a  person  as  myself  in  exist 
ence.  But  Mrs.  Leonard,  who  was  also  bidden,  explained 
it. 

"It's  Caroline's  way,"  said  she.  "She's  always  had  a 
sort  of  mania  for  asking  folks  to  tea.  Why,  I  reckon 
there's  hardly  a  fortnight,  on  an  average,  the  year  round, 
but  what  she  invites  somebody  or  other  to  tea.  I  suppose 
she  gets  kind  of  dull,  and  there's  a  little  excitement  about 
it,  getting  ready  for  company.  Anyhow,  she  must  like  it, 
or  she  wouldn't  ask  people.  She  probably  has  heard  you 


4o  A   SYMPHONY  IN  LA  VENDER. 

were  going  to  board  here  this  summer — Ware's  a  little 
place  you  know,  and  folks  hear  everything  about  each 
other — and  thought  she  would  invite  you  over  with  me. 
You  had  better  go ;  you'll  -enjoy  it,  It's  a  nice  place  to 
go  to,  and  she's  a  beautiful  cook,  or  Margaret  is  ;  I  don't 
know  which  does  the  cooking,  but  I  guess  they  both  have 
a  hand  in  it.  Anyhow,  you'll  have  a  pleasant  time.  We'll 
take  our  sewing,  and  go  early — by  three  o'clock.  .  That's 
the  way  people  go  out  to  take  tea  in  Ware." 

So  the  next  afternoon,  at  three  o'clock,  Mrs.  Leonard 
and  I  sallied  across  the  street  to  Miss  Caroline  Munson's. 
She  met  us  at  the  door,  in  response  to  a  tap  of  the  old- 
fashioned  knocker.  Her  manner  of  greeting  us  was  charm 
ing  from  its  very  quaintness.  She  hardly  said  three  words, 
but  showed  at  the  same  time  a  simple  courtesy  and  a 
pleased  shyness,  like  a  child  overcome  with  the  delight  of 
a  tea-party  in  her  honor.  She  ushered  us  into  a  beautiful 
old  parlor  on  the  right  of  the  hall,  and  we  seated  ourselves 
with  our  sewing.  The  conversation  was  not  very  brisk  nor 
very  general  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  There  was  scarce 
ly  any  topic  of  common  interest  to  the  three  of  us,  proba 
bly.  Mrs.  Leonard  was  one  of  those  women  who  converse 
only  of  matters  pertaining  to  themselves  or  their  own  cir 
cle  of  acquaintances,  and  seldom  digress.  Miss  Munson 
I  could  not  judge  of  as  to  conversational  habits,  of  course  ; 
she  seemed  now  to  be  merely  listening  with  a  sort  of  gentle 
interest,  scarcely  saying  a  word  herself,  to  Mrs.  Leonard's 
remarks.  I  was  a  total  stranger  to  Ware  and  Ware  peo 
ple,  and 'consequently  could  neither  talk  nor  listen  to  much 
purpose. 

But  I  was  interested  in  observing  Miss  Munson.  She 
was  a  nice  person  to  observe,  for  if  she  was  conscious  of 


A   SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER.    .  4I 

being  an  object  of  scrutiny,  she  did  not  show  it.  Her  eyes 
never  flashed  up  and  met  mine  fixed  upon  her,  with  a  sud 
denness  startling  and  embarrassing  to  both  of  us.  I  could 
stare  at  her  as  guilelessly  and  properly  as  I  could  at  a 
flower. 

Indeed,  Miss  Munson  did  make  me  think  of  a  flower, 
and  of  one  prevalent  in  her  front  yard,  too — a  lilac  :  there 
was  that  same  dull  bloom  about  her,  and  a  shy,  antiquated 
grace.  A  lilac  always  does  seem  a  little  older  than  some 
other  flowers.  Miss  Munson,  I  could  now  see,  was  proba 
bly  nearer  fifty  than  forty.  There  were  little  lines  and  shad 
ows  in  her  face  that  one  could  not  discern  across  the 
street.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  must  have  been  very 
lovely  in  her  youth,  with  that  sort  of  loveliness  which  does 
not  demand  attention,  but  holds  it  with  no  effort.  An  ex 
quisite,  delicate  young  creature,  she  ought  to  have  been, 
and  had  been,  unless  her  present  appearance  told  lies. 

Lilac  seemed  to  be  her  favorite  color  for  gowns,  for  she 
wore  that  afternoon  a  delicious  old-fashioned  lilac  muslin 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  laid  away  in  lavender  every 
winter  for  the  last  thirty  years.  The  waist  was  cut  surplice 
fashion,  and  she  wore  a  dainty  lace  handkerchief  tucked  into 
it.  Take  it  altogether,  I  suppose  I  never  spent  a  pleasant- 
er  afternoon  in  my  life,  although  it  was  pleasant  in  a  quiet, 
uneventful  sort  of  a  way.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of 
gentle  grace  and  comfort  about  everything:  about  Miss 
Munson,  about  the  room,  and  about  the  lookout  from  the 
high,  deep-seated  windows.  There  was  not  one  vivid  tint 
in  that  parlor;  everything  had  the  dimness  of  age  over  it. 
All  the  brightness  was  gone  out  of  the  carpet.  Large, 
shadowy  figures  sprawled  over  the  floor,  their  indistinct 
ness  giving  them  the  suggestion  of  grace,  and  the  polish  on 


42  A   SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER. 

the  mahogany  furniture  was  too  dull  to  reflect  the  light.  The 
gilded  scrolls  on  the  wall-paper  no  longer  shone,  and  over 
some  of  the  old  engravings  on  the  walls  a  half-transparent 
film  that  looked  like  mist  had  spread.  Outside,  a  cool 
green  shadow  lay  over  the  garden,  and  soft,  lazy  puffs  of 
lilac-scented  air  came  in  at  the  windows.  Oh,  it  was  all 
lovely,  and  it  was  so  little  trouble  to  enjoy  it. 

I  liked,  too,  the  tea  which  came  later.  The  dining-room 
was  as  charming  in  its  way  as  the  parlor,  large  and  dark 
and  solid,  with  some  beautiful  quaint  pieces  of  furniture  in 
it.  The  china  was  pink  and  gold ;  and  I  fancied  to  my 
self  that  Miss  Munson's  grandmother  had  spun  the  table- 
linen,  and  put  it  away  in  a  big  chest,  with  rose  leaves  be 
tween  the  folds.  I  do  believe  the  surroundings  and  the 
circumstances  imparted  a  subtle  flavor  to  everything  I 
tasted,  which  gave  rise  to  something  higher  than  mere 
gustatory  delight,  or  maybe  it  was  my  mood  ;  but  it  cer 
tainly  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  before  enjoyed  a  tea 
so  much. 

After  that  day,  Miss  Munson  and  I  became  very  well  ac 
quainted.  I  got  into  the  habit  of  running  over  there  very 
often  ;  she  seldom  came  to  see  me.  It  was  tacitly  under 
stood  between  us  that  it  was  pleasanter  for  me  to  do  the 
visiting. 

I  do  not  know  how  she  felt  towards  me — I  think  she 
liked  me — but  I  began  to  feel  an  exceeding,  even  a  loving, 
interest  in  her.  All  that  I  could  think  of  sometimes,  when 
with  her,  was  a  person  walking  in  a  garden  and  getting 
continually  delicious  little  sniffs  of  violets,  so  that  he  cer 
tainly  knew  they  were  near  him,  although  they  were  hidden 
somewhere  under  the  leaves,  and  he  could  not  see  them. 
There  would  not  be  a  day  that  Miss  Munson  would  not 


A   SYMPHONY  IN  LA  VENDER.  43 

say  things  that  were  so  many  little  hints  of  a  rare  sweet 
ness  and  beauty  of  nature,  which  her  shyness  and  quietness 
did  not  let  appear  all  at  once. 

She  was  rather  chary  always  of  giving  very  broad  glimpses 
of  herself.  I  was  always  more  or  less  puzzled  and  evaded 
by  her,  though  she  was  evidently  a  sincere,  childlike  wom 
an,  with  a  liking  for  simple  pleasures.  She  took  genuine 
delight  in  picking  a  little  bunch  of  flowers  in  her  garden 
for  a  neighbor,  and  in  giving  those  little  tea-parties.  She 
was  religious  in  an  innocent,  unquestioning  way,  too.  I 
oftener  than  not  found  an  open  Bible  near  her  when  I  came 
in,  and  she  talked  about  praying  as  simply  as  one  would 
about  breathing. 

But  the  day  before  I  left  Ware  she  told  me  a  very  pecul 
iar  story,  by  which  she  displayed  herself  to  me  all  at  once 
in  a  fuller  light,  although  she  revealed  such  a  character 
that  I  was,  in  one  way,  none  the  less  puzzled.  She  and  I 
were  sitting  in  her  parlor.  She  was  feeling  sad  about  my 
going,  and  perhaps  that  led  her  to  confide  in  me.  Any 
way,  she  looked  up,  suddenly,  after  a  little  silence. 

"  Do  you,"  she  said,  "  believe  in  dreams  ?" 

"That  is  a  question  I  can't  answer  truthfully,"  I  replied, 
laughing.  "  I  don't  really  know  whether  I  believe  in 
dreams  or  not." 

"  I  don't  know  either,"  she  said,  slowly,  and  she  shud 
dered  a  little.  "  I  have  a  mind  to  tell  you,"  she  went  on, 
"  about  a  dream  I  had  once,  and  about  something  that  hap 
pened  to  me  afterwards.  I  never  did  tell  any  one,  and  I 
believe  I  would  like  to.  That  is,  if  you  would  like  to  have 
me,"  she  asked,  as  timidly  as  a  child  afraid  of  giving  trouble. 

I  assured  her  that  I  would,  and,  after  a  little  pause,  she 
told  me  this: 


44  A  SYMPHONY  IN  LA  FENDER. 

"  I  was  about  twenty-two,"  she  said,  "  and  father  and  moth 
er  had  been  dead,  one  four,  the  other  six  years.  I  was  liv 
ing  alone  here  with  Margaret,  as  I  have  ever  since.  I  have 
thought  sometimes  that  it  was  my  living  alone  so  much, 
and  not  going  about  with  other  girls  more,  that  made  me 
dream  as  much  as  I  did,  but  I  don't  know.  I  used  always  to 
have  a  great  many  dreams,  and  some  of  them  seemed  as  if 
they  must  mean  something ;  but  this  particular  one,  in  it 
self  and  in  its  effect  on  my  after-life,  was  very  singular. 

"It  was  in  spring,  and  the  lilacs  were  just  in  bloom,  when 
I  dreamed  it.  I  thought  I  was  walking  down  the  road 
there  under  the  elm-trees.  I  had  on  a  lilac  muslin  gown,  and 
I  carried  a  basket  of  flowers  on  my  arm.  They  were  mostly 
white,  or  else  the  very  faintest  pink — lilies  and  roses.  I  had 
gone  down  the  street  a  little  way,  when  I  saw  a  young  man 
coming  towards  me.  He  had  on  a  broad-brimmed  soft  hat  and 
a  velvet  coat,  and  carried  something  that  looked  odd  under 
his  arm.  When  he  came  nearer  I  could  see  that  he  had  a 
handsome  dark  face,  and  that  he  was  carrying  an  artist's 
easel.  When  he  reached  me  he  stopped  and  looked  down 
into  my  face  and  then  at  my  basket  of  flowers.  I  stopped 
too — I  could  not  seem  to  help  it  in  my  dream — and  gazed 
down  at  the  ground.  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  him,  and  I 
trembled  so  that  the  lilies  and  roses  in  my  basket  quiv 
ered. 

Finally  he  spoke.  'Won't  you  give  me  one  of  your 
flowers,'  he  said — 'just  one?' 

"  I  gathered  courage  to  glance  up  at  him  then,  and  when 
his  eyes  met  mine  it  did  seem  to  me  that  I  wanted  to  give 
him  one  of  those  flowers  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  I  looked  into  my  basket,  and  had  my  fingers 
on  the  stem  of  the  finest  lily  there,  when  something  came 


A  SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER.  45 

whirring  and  fanning  by  my  face  and  settled  on  my  shoul 
der,  and  when  I  turned  my  head,  with  my  heart  beating 
loud,  there  was  a  white  dove. 

"  But,  somehow,  I  seemed  in  my  dream  to  forget  all  about 
the  dove  in  a  minute,  and  I  looked  away  in  the  young  man's 
face  again,  and  lifted  the  lily  from  the  basket  as  I  did  so. 

"  But  his  face  did  not  look  to  me  as  it  did  before,  though 
I  still  wanted  to  give  him  the  lily  just  as  much.  I  stood 
still,  gazing  at  him,  for  a  moment ;  there  was,  in  my  dream, 
a  sort  of  fascination  over  me  which  would  not  let  me  take 
my  eyes  from  him.  As  I  gazed,  his  face  changed  more 
and  more  to  me,  till  finally — I  cannot  explain  it — it  looked 
at  once  beautiful  and  repulsive.  I  wanted  at  once  to  give 
him  the  lily  and  would  have  died  rather  than  give  it  to 
him,  and  I  turned  and  fled,  with  my  basket  of  flowers  and 
my  dove  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  great  horror  of  something, 
I  did  not  know  what,  in  my  heart.  Then  I  woke  up  all  of 
a  tremble." 

Miss  Munson  stopped.  "What  do  you  think  of  the 
dream  ?"  she  said,  in  a  few  minutes.  "Do  you  think  it  pos 
sible  that  it  could  have  had  any  especial  significance,  or 
should  you  think  it  merely  a  sleeping  vagary  of  a  romantic, 
imaginative  girl?" 

"  I  think  that  would  depend  entirely  upon  after-events,"' 
I  answered ;  "  they  might  or  might  not  prove  its  signifi 
cance." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  Well,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  they  did,  but  the  worst  of  it  has  been  I  have 
never  been  quite  sure — never  quite  sure.  But  I  will  tell  you, 
and  you  shall  judge.  A  year  from  the  time  I  dreamed  that 
dream,  I  actually  met  that  same  young  man  one  morning  in 
the  street.  I  had  on  my  lilac  gown,  and  I  held  a  sprig  of 
4 


46  A   SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER. 

lilac  in  my  hand  ;  I  had  broken  it  off  the  bush  as  I  came 
along.  He  almost  stopped  for  a  second  when  he  came  up 
to  me,  and  looked  clown  into  my  face.  I  was  terribly 
startled,  for  I  recognized  at  once  the  man  of  my  dream,  and 
I  can't  tell  you  how  horrible  and  uncanny  it  all  seemed  for 
a  minute.  There  was  the  same  handsome  dark  face  ;  there 
were  the  broad  hat,  and  the  velvet  coat,  and  the  easel  un 
der  the  arm.  Well,  he  passed  on,  and  I  did  ;  but  I  was  in 
a  flutter  all  day,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  into 
mine  continually. 

"A  few  days  afterwards  he  called  upon  me  with  Mrs. 
Graves,  a  lady  who  used  to  live  in  Ware  and  take  boarders  : 
she  moved  away  some  years  ago.  I  learned  that  he  was 
an  artist.  His  name  was — no,  I  will  not  tell  you  his  name  : 
be  is  from  your  city,  and  well  known.  He  had  engaged 
board  with  Mrs.  Graves  for  the  summer.  After  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  day  but  I  saw  him.  We  were  both  entirely 
free  to  seek  each  other's  society,  and  we  were  together  a 
great  deal.  He  used  to  take  me  sketching  with  him,  and 
he  would  come  here  at  all  hours  of  the  day  as  uncon 
cernedly  as  a  brother  might.  He  would  sit  beside  me  in 
the  parlor  and  watch  me  sew,  and  in  the  kitchen  and  watch 
me  cook.  He  was  very  boyish  and  unconventional  in  his 
ways,  and  I  used  to  think  it  charming.  We  soon  grew  to 
care  a  great  deal  about  each  other,  of  course,  although  he 
said  nothing  about  it  to  me  for  a  long  time.  I  knew  from 
the  first  that  I  loved  him  dearly,  but  from  the  first  there 
was,  as  there  was  in  my  dream,  a  kind  of  horror  of  him 
along  with  the  love:  it  kept  me  from  being  entirely  happy. 
The  night  before  he  went  away  he  spoke.  We  had  been 
to  walk,  and  were  standing  here  at  my  door.  He  asked 
me  to  marry  him.  I  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  felt  just  as 


A  SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER.  47 

I  did  in  my  dream  about  giving  him  the  flower,  when  all  of 
a  sudden  his  face  looked  different  to  me,  just  as  it  did  in 
the  dream.  I  cannot  explain  it.  It  was  as  if  I  saw  no 
more  of  the  kindness  and  the  love  in  it,  only  something  else 
• — evil — and  the  same  horror  came  over  me. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  looked  to  him  as  I  stood  gazing 
up  at  him,  but  he  turned  very  pale,  and  started  back.  '  My 
God  !  Caroline,'  he  said,  'what  is  it?' 

"I  don't  know  what  I  said,  but  it  must  have  expressed 
my  sudden  repulsion  very  strongly;  for,  after  a  few  bitter 
words,  he  left  me,  and  I  went  into  the  house.  I  never  saw 
him  again.  I  have  seen  his  name  in  the  papers,  and  that 
is  all. 

"  Now  I  want  to  know,"  Miss  Munson  went  on,  "  if  you 
think  that  my  dream  was  really  sent  to  me  as  a  warning, 
or  that  I  fancied  it  all,  and  wrecked  —  no,  I  won't  say 
wrecked — dulled  the  happiness  of  my  whole  life  for  a  ner 
vous  whim  ?" 

She  looked  questioningly  at  me,  an  expression  at  once 
serious  and  pitiful  on  her  delicate  face.  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  say.  It  was  obvious  that  I  could  form  no  correct 
opinion  unless  I  knew  the  man.  I  wondered  if  I  did. 
There  was  an  artist  of  about  the  right  age  whom  I  thought 
of.  If  he  were  the  one — well,  I  think  Miss  Munson  was  right. 

She  saw  that  I  hesitated.  "  Never  mind,"  she  said,  rising 
with  her  usual  quiet,  gentle  smile  on  her  lips,  "you  don't 
know  any  more  than  I  do,  and  I  never  shall  know  in  this 
world.  All  I  hope  is  that  it  was  what  God  meant,  and  not 
what  I  imagined.  We  won't  talk  any  more  about  it.  I 
have  liked  to  tell  you,  for  some  reason  or  other,  that  is  all. 
Now  I  am  going  to  take  you  into  the  garden  and  pick  your 
last  posy  for  you." 


48  A  SYMPHONY  IN  LAVENDER. 

After  I  had  gone  down  the  stone  steps  with  my  hands 
full  of  verbenas  and  pansies,  I  turned  and  looked  up  at  her 
standing  so  mild  and  sweet  between  the  lilac-trees,  and 
said  good-bye  again.  That  was  the  last  time  I  saw  her. 

The  next  summer  when  I  came  to  Ware  the  blinds  on 
the  front  of  the  Munson  house  were  all  closed,  and  the  lit 
tle  flower-beds  in  the  front  yard  were  untended;  only  the 
lilacs  were  in  blossom,  for  they  had  the  immortal  spring  for 
their  gardener. 

"Miss  Munson  died  last  winter,"  said  Mrs.  Leonard, 
looking  reflectively  across  the  street.  "  She  was  laid  out 
in  a  lilac-colored  cashmere  gown;  it-was  her  request.  She 
always  wore  lilac,  you  know.  Well "  (with  a  sigh),  "  I  do 
believe  that  Caroline  Munson,  if  she  is  an  angel — and  I 
suppose  she  is — doesn't  look  much  more  different  from 
what  she  did  before  than  those  lilacs  over  there  do  from 
last  year's  ones." 


A  TARDY  THANKSGIVING. 

"I  S'POSE  you  air  goin'  down  to  Hannah's  to  spend 
Thanksgivin',  Mis'  Muzzy  ?" 

The  old  lady  who  as"ked  the  question  was  seated  in  Mrs. 
Muzzy's  best  hair -cloth  rocking-chair,  which  had  been 
brought  out  of  the  parlor  for  the  occasion.  She  had  a  mild, 
tiny-featured  old  face,  wore  a  false  front  of  auburn  hair, 
and  a  brack  lace  cap  decorated  with  purple  ribbons,  and 
was  knitting — putting  new  heels  into  some  blue  yarn  stock 
ings. 

The  answer  she  got  to  her  question,  delivered  in  her  prim, 
purring,  company  tone,  made  her  jump  nervously. 

"No ;  I  ain't  goin'  a  step — not  if  I  know  what  I'm  about." 

The  words  shot  out  of  Mrs.  Muzzy's  mouth  as  if  each  one 
had  had  a  charge  of  powder  in  its  rear,  and  the  speaker 
went  on  jerking  the  stout  thread  viciously  through  the  seam 
she  was  sewing. 

She  was  a  squarely  built  woman,  compactly  fleshy.  There 
was  a  bright  red  color  on  each  of  her  firm,  round  cheeks ; 
there  was  nQt__a__vague  line  in  her  whole  face ;  her  mouth 
opened  and  shut  unhesitatingly  and  fairly  •  and  she  looked 
out  of  her  small  brown  eyes  directly,  with  no  circumlocution. 

"  Mebbe  you  air  goin'  up  to  your  brother  Andrew's  then?" 
ventured  the  old  lady,  feebly. 


5o  A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING. 

"  No,  Mis'  Field,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  Andrew's  nuther.  I 
ain't  a-goin'  nowheres." 

"  But,"  purred  the  old  lady,  "  ain't  you  afeard  you'll  be 
awful  lonesome  ?  Lor',  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  ef 
it  warn't  for  Serrah  an'  her  childern  on  a  Thanksgivin'-day. 
To  be  sure,  you  ain't  got  any  childern  an'  grandchildern  to 
go  to,  but  thar's  your  sister  Hannah  an'  hers,  an'  Andrew  an' 
his,  an'  it  kinder  seems  as  if  brothers  and  sisters  come  next." 

"  Thar  ain't  no  use  talkin',"  said  Mrs.  Muzzy,  in  a  loud, 
clear-cut  voice.  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  Hannah's  to  Thanks- 
givin',  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  Andrew's  to  Thanksgivin',  an'  I 
ain't  agoin'  to  hev  any  Thanksgivin'  to  hum.  I  ain't  got 
nothin'  to  give  thanks  fur,  as  I  see  on.  I  s'pose  ef  I  could 
go  to  meetin'  Thanksgivin'  mornin',  an'  hear  the  sermon, 
an'  then  set  down  to  turkey  and  plum-puddin,'  an'  be  a- 
thankin'  the  Lord  in  my  heart  for  lettin'  my  husband  fall 
off  the  scaffold  in  the  barn  an'  git  killed  last  summer,  an' 
for  lettin'  my  daughter  Charlotte  die  of  a  quick  consump 
tion  last  spring,  an'  my  son  John  two  year  ago  this  fall,  I 
might  keep  Thanksgivin'  as  well  as  other  folks.  But  I  can't, 
an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  purtend  I  do.  Thar's  one  thing  about 
it — I  ain't  a  hypocrite,  an'  never  was." 

"What  air  you  a-goin'  to  do,  Mis'  Muzzy?" 

"  Do  !"  Mrs.  Muzzy  sniffed.  "  Do  !  I'm  a-goin  to  stay  to 
hum,  an' — do  my  pig-work." 

The  old  lady's  small-featured  countenance,  from  its  very 
mechanism,  was  incapable  of  expressing  any  very  strong 
emotion,  but  it  took  on  now  a  look  of  gentle  horror.  She 
dropped  her  knitting-work,  and  her  dim  blue  eyes  seemed 
to  take  up  the  whole  of  her  spectacles. 

"  Lor'  sakes,  Mis'  Muzzy !  Pig-work  on  Thanksgivin'- 
day  !  I  never  heerd  anything  like  it !" 


A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING.  5! 

"  I  don't  keer.  The  pig-work  has  got  to  be  done,  an'  I 
might  jest  as  well  do  it  Thanksgivin'-day  as  any  other.  I 
feel  enough  sight  more  like  it  than  eating  turkey  an'  plum- 
puddin',  with  all  I've  been  through." 

"  Ain't  you  a-goin'  to  meetin'  ?" 

"No." 

"Lor'sakes!" 

The  old  lady  fell  to  knitting  again  in  a  mild  daze.  Mrs. 
Muzzy  would  have  been  too  much  for  her  in  her  best  days  ; 
now  she  almost  reduced  her  to  lunacy.  Still,  this  old  lady, 
who  was  a  neighbor,  living  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant, 
felt  for  her  the  attraction  which  weak  natures  often  feel  for 
the  strong.  She  was  very  fond  of  dropping  in  of  an  after 
noon  with  her  knitting- work.  There  was  not  so  much 
difference  in  their  ages  as  one  might  think  at  first,  either, 
although  Mrs.  Muzzy  was  so  much  younger-looking.  Her 
daughter,  who  had  died  the  spring  before,  had  been  a  school 
mate  of  Mrs.  Field's  Sarah. 

The  old  lady  often  accepted  the  invitation  to  stay  and 
take  a  cup  of  tea,  but  to-day  she  shortened  her  call  a  little. 
The  "pig -work"  on  Thanksgiving -day  rankled  in  her 
mind,  and  she  wanted  to  go  home  and  tell  her  daughter 
Sarah. 

After  she  had  gone,  Mrs.  Muzzy  went  from  the  warm  sit 
ting-room  into  her  col-d,  exquisitely  neat  kitchen,  and  kindled 
a  fire  in  the  cooking-stove,  and  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea. 
Though  she  was  living  alone,  every  meal  was  prepared  and 
eaten  with  religious  exactitude.  She  spread  a  white  cloth 
ovefTHe"  table,  put  on  some  slices  of  bread,  a  little  dish  of 
quince  sauce,  and  some  custard-pie.  Then  she  sat  down 
with  a  sort  of  defiant  appetite. 

She  had  finished  her  bread  and  sauce,  and  begun  on  her 


52  A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING. 

pie,  when  the  kitchen  -  door,  which  led  directly  out-doors, 
opened,  and  a  girl  of  twenty  or  so  walked  in. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Lizzie  ?"  said  Mrs.  Muzzy. 

"  Pretty  well,  Aunt  Jane,"  replied  the  girl,  listlessly,  and 
she  sank  down  in  the  nearest  chair. 

She  was  a  tall,  slender  girl,  with  dun-colored  hair.  She 
had  delicate  'features,  and  would  have  been  pretty  if  it  had 
not  been  for  a  pitiful  droop  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
the  dullness  of  her  eyes,  and  the  dark  rings  under  them. 

"  Hev  some  custard-pie  ?"  . 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  am  not  hungry." 

"  Hev  you  eat  any  supper  ?" 

"I  don't  know — yes,  I  think  so — some  bread  and  butter." 

"  I  saw  young  Allen  go  by  here  'bout  three  o'clock,  ridin' 
with  that  Hammond  girl,"  remarked  Mrs.  Muzzy,  eying  her 
niece  sharply. 

She  only  looked  at  her  aunt  in  the  same  way  she  had 
done  before,  with  an  expression  of  misery  too  helpless  and 
settled  to  be  augmented. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  saw  them." 

"  She's  a  pretty-looking  gal.  Her  cheeks  air  as  red  as 
roses,  an'  she  had  on  a  handsome  bunnit." 

"Yes." 

"  It's  quite  a  long  time  since  he's  been  to  see  you." 

"Yes."  .^',. -. 

Never  was  such  complete  unresistance  to  a  tormentor,  if 
tormentor  she  meant  to  be. 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  mind  anyhow,  ef  I  was  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Muzzy,  looking  at  the  girl's  weary  face,  and  changing  her 
tone  a  little.  "  Let  him  go  ef  he  wants  to.  Jest  show  him 
you  don't  keer." 

The  girl  woke  up  a  little  at  that.     "  Show  him  I  don't 


A   TARDY  THANKSGIVING.  53 

care !"  she  cried,  passionately.  "  He  knows  I  care.  It 
would  be  a  disgrace  to  me  if  I  didn't  care,  after  I've  been 
going  with  him  for  three  years,  and  he  leaving  me  for  a  new 
face.  It's  no  use  pretending  I  don't.  I  don't  see  why  folks 
tell  me  to.  My  heart  ought  to  be  broken,  and  it  is." 

"  I'd  hev  more  sperrit." 

"  Would  you  ?  Well,  I'm  made  different,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  girl ;  and  her  face  took  on  its  listless  expression  again. 

Her  aunt  finished  her  second  cup  of  tea,  and  began  to 
clear  away  the  table. 

"Are  you  coming  over  to  our  house  Thanksgiving,  or 
Uncle  Andrews?"  asked  Lizzie,  after  a  little,  with  some 
faint  appearance  of  interest. 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  nowheres ;  I'm  a-goin'  to  stay  to  hum 
an'  do  my  pig-work." 

"  Pig-work  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I'm  a-goin'  to  hev  'em  killed  Tuesday." 

Her  surprise  made  Lizzie  for  a  minute  look  like  another 
girl.  "  But,  Aunt  Jane,  why  ?  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing! 
Pig-work  on  Thanksgiving-day  !" 

Mrs.  Muzzy  braced  herself  up  defiantly.  "  Look  a-here, 
Lizzie  Munroe,"  quoth  she;  "you  think  you're  down  as  fur 
as  anybody  kin  be,  because  you've  lost  your  beau.  Well, 
I've  lost  my  husband,  that  I'd  lived  with  forty  year,  an' 
that  was  more  than  any  beau,  an'  I've  lost  my  daughter, 
both  of  'em  this  year,  an'  two  year  ago  this  fall  my  son  John, 
an'  I  don't  see  as  I've  got  anything  to  be  thankful  for.  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  keep  Thanksgivin'-day,  an'  eat  turkey  an' 
plum-puddin'.  I  feel  enough  sight  more  like  doin'  pig- 
work,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to." 

The  girl's  dull  eyes  seemed  to  catch  a  gleam  from  her 
aunt's.  For  a  minute  she  looked  strangely  like  her.  Mrs. 


54  A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING. 

Muzzy's  passionate,  defiant  nature  fired  her  niece's  more 
unresisting,  hopeless  one. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Jane,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  like  an  echo  of 
her  aunt's,  "  I  don't  wonder  you  feel  so.  And — I  don't  care 
about  eating  turkey  and  plum-pudding  either — I'll  come 
over  and  help  you." 

Mrs.  Muzzy  looked  startled  for  a  minute.  Perhaps  her 
own  spirit  reflected  in  another  looked  differently  to  her. 

"  Well,  Lizzie,  jest  as  you  like,"  she  said  then.  "  I'll  be 
glad  of  your  help  ;  it's  consider'ble  to  do  pig-work  all  alone, 
an'  I've  never  been  used  to  it " — with  a  sigh. 

"Well,  I'll  come,  Aunt  Jane." 

There  was  a  long  silence ;  then  the  girl  took  her  sad 
face  out  of  the  door,  and  her  aunt,  having  set  away  the  last  of 
her  tea  things,  went  back  into  her  warm  sitting-room ;  the 
kitchen  fire  was  going  out,  and  it  was  growing  cold. 

Thanksgiving  morning,  a  week  later,  was  gray  and  cloudy, 
and  the  air  felt  like  snow.  Mrs.  Muzzy's  kitchen  was  full 
of  steaming,  glowing  heat.  She  had  two  immense  iron 
kettles  on  her  stove,  and  was  busily  cutting  pork  into  small 
square  bits  to  try  out. 

Lizzie  was  there  helping,  too.  She  had  come  over  early. 
Her  sad  young  face  looked  sadder  this  morning.  The  cold, 
gray  light  brought  out  all  the  pitiful,  drooping  lines  more 
plainly.  She  had  probably  been  weeping  instead  of  sleep 
ing  the  night  before.  Her  dun-colored  hair  was  put  back 
plainly  and  neatly;  grief  did  not  with  her  manifest  itself  in 
untidiness,  though  she  never  crimped  her  hair  now.  Lizzie 
looked  like  another  girl  with  her  hair  crimped.  Her  dark 
print  fitted  over  her  slender  shoulders  trimly,  and  she  wore 
a  little  white  ruffle  in  the  neck.  She  was  cutting  pork  too ; 
her  wrists,  though  small,  were  muscular,  and  she  worked 


A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING.  55 

steadily  and  effectively,  though  with  a  pathetic  indifference. 
Mrs.  Muzzy's  firmly  set  face  betrayed  little  of  it,  but  she 
really  eyed  her  niece  from  time  to  time  with  furtive  uneasi 
ness. 

She  had  an  inner  consciousness,  ever  present  to  herself, 
that  her  state  of  mind  was  highly  culpable,  but  she  under 
took  the  responsibility  for  herself  with  sullen  defiance.  It 
was  another  thing,  however,  to  be  responsible  for  a  similar 
state  in  another.  Lizzie,  standing  there,  with  her  dull,  hope 
less  face,  indefatigably  cutting  pork,  seemed  to  her  like  the 
visible  fruit  of  her  own  rebellious  nature. 

"  Hev  you  seen  Jenny  Bostwick  lately  !"  asked  she,  with 
a  desperate  determination  to  alter  her  niece's  expression. 

"No,"  replied  Lizzie,  slowly.  "Joe  hasn't  left  her. 
They're  always  together.  I  can't  bear  to  go  there." 

"  1  know,"  said  Mrs.  Muzzy,  with  quick,  sympathetic  rec 
ognition  of  the  feeling.  "I  felt  that  way  after  John  died. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  go  into  Mis'  Mann's,  because  there  was. 
her  Edward  —  she'd  had  him  spared,  an'  my  boy'd  been 
taken." 

There  was  something  startling  in  the  frankness,  almost 
shamelessness,  of  the  girl's  avowal  of  envious  misery,  and 
her  aunt's  instantaneous  sympathy  with  it.  It  was  as  if 
their  two  natures  were  growing  more  and  more  into  an  evil 
accord. 

About  ten  o'clock  the  front-door  bell  rang.  "You  go  to 
the  door,  Lizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Muzzy ;  "you  look  better'n  I." 

Lizzie  took  off  her  apron,  and  went  obediently.  Time 
was  when  the  tinkle  of  a  door-bell  could  make  her  tremble 
all  over,  but  she  was  calm  enough  now.  It  was  six  months 
since  George  Allen  had  been  to  see  her,  and  she  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  his  ever  coming  again. 


56  A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING. 

Mrs.  Muzzy  heard  the  doors  open  and  shut,  then  a  mur 
mur  of  voices  in  the  sitting-room.  One  of  the  voices  was 
unquestionably  a  man's,  low-pitched  and  earnest.  Lizzie's 
seemed  to  break  into  sobs  now  and  then,  and  once  she 
laughed.  Mrs.  Muzzy  started  when  she  heard  that;  she 
had  almost  forgotten  how  Lizzie's  laugh  sounded. 

"Who  on  earth  has  Lizzie  got  in  there?"  she  muttered 
to  herself;  but  she  was  a  woman  who  could  keep  her  curi 
osity  in  check.  She  went  steadily  on  with  her  work  till  the 
sitting-room  door  opened  and  Lizzie  came  out. 

But  was  it  Lizzie  ? — the  girl  with  those  pink  cheeks  and 
radiant  eyes,  and  that  dimpling  mouth  ?  Mrs.  Muzzy  laid 
her  knife  down  and  stared  at  her. 

"  It's  George !  George !"  said  Lizzie,  in  a  happy,  trem 
bling  whisper  that  seemed  almost  ready  to  break  out  into  a 
scream  of  joy.  "  He's  come  to — to  take  me  up  to  his  house 
to  dinner.  I'm  going  home  to  change  my  dress  and  get 
ready."  She  was  trembling  so  she  could  hardly  move,  but 
she  began  pinning  on  her  shawl  in  joyful  haste. 

" Lizzie  Munroe,"  said  her  aunt,  sternly,  "you  don't  mean  to 
say  you're  goin'  on  with  that  fellow  after  all  that's  happened?" 

"Yes,  I  am;  he's  come  for  me."  Great  tears  of  pure 
delight  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  had  her  hood  on  now, 
and  turned  impatiently  towards  the  sitting-room  door. 

"  Come  for  you !  I  s'pose  ef  he'd  got  married  to  that 
Hammond  girl  an'  come  for  you,  you'd  gone  jest  the  same  !" 
cried  her  aunt,  with  coarse  sarcasm. 

"  Yes,  I  would !"  cried  Lizzie,  recklessly,  her  hand  on 
the  door-knob. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  but  what  that  Hammond  girl's  given  him 
the  mitten,  else  he  wouldn't  'a  come.  I  wouldn't  play 
second  fiddle  for  any  feller." 


A   TARDY  THANKSGIVING.  57 

"  I  would  for  him  /"  cried  Lizzie,  as  shameless  in  her 
happiness  as  she  had  been  in  her  misery.  She  opened  the 
door  a  crack  and  peeped  in ;  then  she  turned  to  her  aunt, 
her  eyes  like  stars,  her  cheeks  fairly  ablaze. 

"  Good-bye,  Aunt  Jane,"  she  said.  "  I'm  sorry  to  leave 
you  alone  with  the  pig-work.  You'd  better  change  your 
mind  an'  go  over  to  mother's  to  dinner." 

Mrs.  Muzzy  vouchsafed  no  reply,  and  Lizzie  went  into 
the  sitting-room  and  shut  the  door. 

Pretty  soon  her  aunt  watched  her  and  her  truant  sweet 
heart  walking  down  the  street.  Lizzie  was  actually  hang 
ing  on  to  his  arm,  in  broad  daylight. 

"  I  don't  see  where  she  took  such  a  disposition,"  mut 
tered  Mrs.  Muzzy.  "  Not  from  my  side.  I'd  never  have 
made  such  a  fool  of  myself  over  a  feller." 

Then  she  went  on  with  her  pig-work,  righteous  indigna 
tion  and  scorn  against  Lizzie  mingling  in  her  bosom  with 
rebellion  against  the  will  of  the  Lord. 

It  had  always  been  her  boast  that  she  wasn't  one  of  the 
kind  of  women  who  are  forever  dropping  things,  and  get 
ting  burned  and  scalded,  and  cutting  their  fingers.  She 
thought  there  was  no  kind  of  need  of  it,  if  anybody  had  her 
wits  about  her,  and  didn't  fly  about  like  a  hen  with  her  head 
cut  off. 

She  was  to  prove,  however,  to-day  that  her  boasting,  for 
one  occasion  at  least,  was  vain. 

She  had  lifted  the  first  kettle  of  boiling  lard  off  the  stove 
in  safety,  and  deposited  it  in  the  sink.  The  second — how 
she  did  it  she  never  knew,  whether  the  sudden  weakening 
of  a  muscle  or  the  slipping^oFa  finger  occasioned  it — she 
dropped  bodily  as  she  was  lifting  it  from  the  fire. 

None  of  the  hot  fat  went  on  the  stove,  or  there  would 


5 8  A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING. 

have  been  a  worse  complication  of  disasters.  It  landed  on 
the  floor  and  Mrs.  Muzzy's  right  foot.  She  lost  none  of 
her  resolute  coolness,  with  the  sudden  shock  and  agony. 
The  kettle  was  scorching  the  floor ;  you  could  smell  the 
burning  paint.  She  lifted  it  on  to  the  stove  hearth,  and 
cast  a  distrustful  and  indignant  glance  at  the  molten  grease 
spreading  over  the  floor. 

Then  she  had  luckily  a  pair  of  scissors  within  reach.  She 
sat  down  and  cut  off,  with  convulsive  shivers  of  pain,  but 
grim  determination,  her  shoe  and  stocking.  The  foot  was 
shockingly  burned.  She  set  her  lips  hard  when  she  saw  it. 

"  A  half-winter's  job,"  said  she.     "  Well !" 

She  dragged  herself  in  her  chair  with  one  foot,  hitching 
herself  along,  into  the  buttery,  to  the  flour  barrel.  She  pow 
dered  the  wounded  foot  thickly  with  flour,  and  hitched  back. 

"  There,"  said  she,  "  that's  all  I  can  do.  There  ought  to 
be  oil  and  bandages  and  things ;  but  I've  got  to  set  still. 
I  wish  somebody  would  come." 

Then  she  sat  there  in  silent  endurance,  in  the  midst  of 
the  grease,  which  had  cooled,  and  formed  a  white  coating 
over  the  kitchen  floor.  Her  foot  was  a  mass  of  torture. 
She  did  not  have  long  to  wait  for  help,  however ;  she  had 
not  been  sitting  there  half  an  hour  when  she  heard  quick 
steps  on  the  frozen  ground  outside. 

"  Open  the  door,  Jane,"  called  the  voice  of  her  sister 
Hannah,  Lizzie's  mother.  "  I've  got  my  hands  full." 

"I  can't,"  responded  Mrs.  Muzzy,  "you'll  hev  to  do  it 
yourself." 

The  door  opened  after  a  second.  The  caller,  who  had 
a  large  plate  in  each  hand,  stopped  short  in  utter  dismay  as 
she  took  in  the  aspect  of  things — her  sister,  with  her  floury 
foot  and  pale  face,  and  the  lard  on  the  floor. 


A    TARDY  THANKSGIVING.  59 

"  Why,  what  hev  you  done,  Jane  ?"  she  cried. 

Mrs.  Muzzy  looked  up,  and  actually  smiled,  the  first  time 
her  sister  had  seen  her  for  many  a  day.  "  What  hev  you 
got  thar,  Hannah  ?"  asked  she. 

"Why,  I  brought  you  over  some  Thanksgivin'  dinner; 
but  I  guess  you  won't  feel  like  eatin'  any  now." 

"Yes,  I  do.     Bring  it  here." 

"  But  you  want  somethin'  done  more  for  your  foot.  Did 
you  tip  the  hot  lard  right  on  to  it  ?  Don't  it  ache?  Hadn't 
you  better  wait  an'  eat  your  dinner  after  the  foot's  been 
seen  to  ?" 

"  No,  Hannah  ;  I  want  it  now.  I  want  to  eat  some  turkey 
an'  plum-puddin'  afore  I'm  an  hour  older,  an'  keep  Thanks 
givin'.  I  said  I  wouldn't,  but  the  Lord  got  ahead  of  me, 
an'  I'm  glad  he  has.  Bring  it  here  an'  I'll  eat  my  dinner, 
an'  then,  mebbe,  I  kin  hev  somethin'  more  done  for  my 
foot." 

Her  sister  gave  in  then,  and  Mrs.  Muzzy,  her  forehead 
wrinkled  with  pain,  sat  there  and  ate  her  Thanksgiving  din 
ner  to  the  very  last  mouthful. 

"  Lizzie's  feelin'  happier,"  she  remarked  once. 

"  Yes ;  George  came  to  take  her  to  his  folks'  to  dinner." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,  ef  she's  goin'  to  feel  any  better." 

"  You  would  be,  ef  you  was  her  mother,"  said  her  sister, 
simpiy0 


A  MODERN  DRAGON. 

IT  was  a  hot  Sunday  in  June.  The  bell  was  ringing  for 
the  morning  service  in  the  Dover  orthodox  church,  and  the 
people  were  flocking  up  the  hill  on  which  the  sacred  edi 
fice  stood.  The  farmers'  wives  and  daughters  wore  their 
thinnest  dresses,  and  were  armed  with  stout  fans  and  sun- 
umbrellas;  the  men  looked  wretched  and  steaming  in  their 
Sunday  coats.  The  sun  beat  fiercely  down  on  Dover  vil 
lage,  on  its  white  houses  and  clover  fields.  The  bees  and 
insects  were  droning  so  loud  that  people  could  hear  them 
inside  the  church.  In  there  it  was  cooler,  though  still  warm 
enough  :  everybody  was  fanning. 

The  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  kept  coming  up  the 
aisles.  David  Ayres,  in  his  place  in  the  second  row  of 
the  singing  seats,  watched  them  soberly.  He  was  a  tall, 
stoutly  built  young  man  ;  his  face  was  brown  and  heavy- 
featured,  but  handsome.  He  had  a  fine  bass  voice. 

A  titter  and  whisper  spread  through  the  row  of  female 
singers  before  him.  "Look  at  Almira  King  !"  The  flower- 
wreathed  bonnets  shook  with  mirth. 

"  What  are  the  girls  laughing  at  ?"  thought  David  Ayres. 

A  girl  was  tripping  up  the  aisle  below,  dressed  in  a  pink 
silk  gown,  bewilderingly  draped  and  pleated.  She  wore 
a  little  white  crape  bonnet  with  a  knot  of  crushed  roses. 


A  MODERN  DRAGON.  6 1 

The  young  man  thought  she  looked  beautiful,  and  saw 
nothing  laughable  about  it.  All  he  wondered  at  was  how 
the  Kings  could  afford  such  a  fine  dress,  and  how  the  girl 
happened  to  come  to  church  anyway.  He  had  never  seen 
her  there  before. 

The  girl  entered  a  pew  well  towards  the  front,  and  settled 
down,  like  a  bird,  with  a  pretty  flutter.  All  David  could  see 
of  her  between  the  people  were  her  shapely  pink  shoulders 
and  knot  of  yellow  hair  below  the  little  bonnet.  When  the 
choir  sang  the  first  hymn,  however,  all  the  congregation 
rose  and  turned  about  to  face  the  singing  seats,  and  he  took 
a  good  look  at  her  as  he  rolled  out  his  sonorous  bass  notes. 
She  had  a  charming,  round,  childish  face,  simple  and  sweet. 
She  was  looking  down  at  her  pretty  gown  with  an  innocent 
simper.  She  pulled  the  drapery  in  the  back  a  little ;  then 
she  glanced  over  her  shoulder  to  see  if  it  was  right ;  then 
she  smoothed  the  front  of  the  overskirt  tenderly.  "  She's 
mighty  tickled  with  her  new  dress,"  reflected  David  Ayres, 
sagely;  but  he  felt  none  of  the  sharp-eyed  female  singers' 
contempt  at  the  girl's  silly  vanity. 

All  at  once  Almira  looked  up  and  met  the  young  man's 
eyes  fixed  full  upon  her.  Her  eyelids  dropped,  and  she 
crimsoned  to  the  lace  round  her  white  throat.  He  could 
see,  even  at  that  distance,  that  she  was  confused  and  dis 
turbed.  "  I  won't  look  at  her  again,  if  it  makes  her  act 
that  way,"  resolved  he ;  and  forthwith  fixed  his  eyes  on  his 
book  as  he  sung. 

After  the  service  was  over  he  went  down  to  the  vestry  to 
Sunday-school.  He  had  a  class.  The  session  occupied 
about  an  hour.  Coming  out,  he  fell  in  with  his  cousin  Ida 
Babcock. 

"  Ida,"  said  he,  abruptly,  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  why 
5 


62  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

folks  were  laughing  when  Almira  King  came  in  this  morn 
ing.  I  didn't  see  anything  to  laugh  at.  Did  you?" 

"  Why,  David  Ayres,  that  dress  was  perfectly  ridiculous 
for  a  girl  to  wear  to  meeting.  Don't  you  know  it  was  ?  I 
don't  wonder  folks  laughed." 

"  I  do,"  quoth  David,  stoutly.  "  I  think  the  dress  was 
all  right.  She  looked  like  a  doll  in  it,  anyway.  I  guess 
you  girls  were  jealous." 

Ida  colored  up.  She  was  a  plain  girl  herself.  "  I  guess 
we  weren't  jealous,"  returned  she,  with  spirit.  "  You  men 
will  overlook  anything  for  a  pretty  face,  and  that's  all  there 
is  about  it.  Every  blessed  thing  that  girl  came  to  meeting 
for  this  morning  was  to  show  her  dress." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  her  cousin,  with  slow  emphasis,  "what 
does  make  you  girls  forever  pick  on  each  other.  I  should 
think,  when  you  saw  one  of  your  own  kind  look  as  pretty 
and  sweet  as  Almira  King  did  this  morning,  you'd  feel 
proud  of  her  in  one  way,  and  say  the  nicest  things  about 
her  that  you  could." 

"Well,  the  dress  was  all  out  of  place,  and  I  don't  think 
that's  very  bad  to  say,"  said  Ida,  trying  to  keep  her  temper. 
"  But  it's  no  use  arguing  with  you  about  it,  David  :  men 
don't  look  at  such  things  like  women." 

"  I  don't  think  they  do,"  replied  David. 

When  Ida  got  home  she  told  her  mother  that  she  didn't 
know  whether  David  was  luny  or  meant  to  be  aggra 
vating. 

"  I  suppose  I  made  Ida  mad,"  reflected  David,  as  he 
sped  along  the  dusty  road  in  his  open  buggy,  keeping  a 
tight  rein  on  his  smart  horse  ;  "  but  I  don't  care.  If  there's 
anything  I  hate,  it's  one  girl  picking  on  another.  Ida  -ought 
to  be  broken  of  it." 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  63 

The  Ayres  farm  was  situated  about  a  mile  and  a  half  out 
of  Dover  village.  About  half  a  mile  out  David  passed  the 
King  place.  The  house  was  poor — a  low  red  cottage — but 
there  were  some  fertile  fields  about  it.  The  King  farm  was 
small,  but,  as  far  as  it  went,  productive. 

David,  as  he  whirled  by,  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman 
coming  round  the  corner  of  the  house  from  the  garden  with 
a  pan  in  her  hand  full  of  beans.  She  was  an  odd  figure, 
short  and  stout,  with  a  masculine  width  of  shoulders.  Her 
calico  dress  cleared  her  thick  ankles,  her  black  hair  was  cut 
short,  and  she  wore  a  man's  straw  hat. 

"  Pity  such  a  pretty  girl  as  Almira  King  has  got  such  a 
mother  !"  David  thought,  after  his  swift  glance  at  her. 

When  he  got  home  he  found  dinner  all  ready.  Every 
thing  was  on  time  in  the  Ayres  household.  David's  moth 
er  sat  by  the  sitting-room  window,  fanning  herself  and  read 
ing  her  Bible,  while  she  waited  for  her  son.  She  was  a  fair, 
stout  woman,  in  an  old-fashioned  muslin  gown.  The  ground 
was  white,  with  a  brown  vine  straggling  thickly  over  it.  She 
looked  up  pleasantly  as  David  entered,  after  putting  up  his 
horse  :  he  was  his  own  hostler.  There  were  soft  curves  in 
her  face,  which  were  deceptive.  Mrs.  Ayres  was  not  just 
such  a  woman  as  her  looks  denoted.  Strangers  generally 
found  themselves  taken  aback  by  her,  after  a  little.  She 
was  a  very  devout  woman,  but  she  had  not  been  to  church 
to-day:  she  had  been  afraid  to  undertake  the  ride  in  the  hot 
sun.  Her  health  was  not  very  good. 

They  had  dinner  directly  in  the  large  room,  running  the 
width  of  the  house,  which  served  as  dining-room  and  kitch 
en  in  the  winter,  and  dining-room  alone  in  the  summer; 
there  was  an  unfinished  back  room,  into  which  the  cooking- 
stove  was  then  moved.  The  Ayres  farmhouse  was  extreme- 


64  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

ly  substantial  and  comfortable,  but  the  old-time  notions  of 
David's  ancestors  were  still  prevalent  in  it. 

The  hired  girl  sat  down  to  the  table  with  David  and  his 
mother.  She  was  about  forty,  as  plump  as  Mrs.  Ayres, 
though  not  as  fair.  There  was  a  cast  in  her  eyes.  She 
had  lived  in  the  Ayres  family  ever  since  David  was  born. 
She  had  the  reputation  of  being  none  too  strong-minded, 
but  that  had  never  been  any  objection  to  her  in  Mrs. 
Ayres's  opinion.  If  anything,  she  enjoyed  the  prestige 
which  her  own  superior  intellect  gave  her,  cheap  triumph 
though  it  was  ;  and  Susan  Means  had  always  been  faithful, 
reliable  help. 

There  was  cold  meat  for  dinner.  Mrs.  Ayres  was  con 
scientious  about  any  unnecessary  cooking  on  the  Sabbath. 

"  Who  was  at  church,  David,"  asked  his  mother,  watch 
ing  him  carve. 

"  Oh,  the  folks  who  usually  go ;  except — well,  that  King 
girl  was  there.  I  never  saw  her  in  church  before." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  I  wonder  how  her  mother  happened 
to  let  her,  she's  such  a  strong  spiritualist.  Well,  the  girl 
can't  amount  to  much,  with  that  kind  of  bringing  up,  poor 
thing." 

"  She  looked  real  pretty,  mother  j  and  she  was  dressed 
pretty  too." 

"  What  did  she  have  on  ?"  J 

"  Something  pink — silk,  I  guess." 

"  Pink  silk  !     I  never — " 

Mrs.  Ayres  went  on  with  the  subject,  finding  it  interest 
ing;  but  David  soon  contrived  to  change  it.  For  some 
reason  he  did  not  feel  as  hot  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for 
Almira  with  his  mother  as  he  had  with  his  cousin  Ida. 

After  dinner  he  went  up-stairs.     Instead  of  entering  his 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  65 

own  room,  he  stole  stealthily  into  the  large  front  chamber 
over  the  parlor.  It  was  not  occupied.  The  best  bedstead 
and  feather-bed  were  in  there,  and  the  best  bureau.  The 
windows  were  open,  and  a  cool  green  light  came  in  through 
the  blinds.  He  sat  down  by  one  of  them,  and  fell  into  a 
young  man's  day-dream,  with  him  as  shy  and  innocent  as  a 
girl's.  "I  suppose,"  said  he  to  himself,  "if  I  ever — get 
married,  we  could  have  this  chamber  fitted  up,  and — some 
new  furniture  in  it.  Almira  King  did  look  pretty  to 
day." 

He  had  seen  her  dozens  of  times  before,  and  admired 
her,  but  not  as  he  had  to-day.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  such 
a  foolish  thing  as  a  pink  silk  dress  should  swerve  such  a 
mighty  thing  as  a  human  heart.  But  feathers  might  fly 
along  to  paradise,  if  the  wind  happened  to  be  that  way,  and 
point  out  its  direction,  to  things  more  important. 

As  for  the  girl  herself,  it  was  perfectly  true  that  she  had 
been  to  church  merely  to  show  herself  in  her  new  dress. 
The  dress  had  to  be  worn  and  shown,  else  what  was  the 
good  of  having  it  at  all,  and  the  church  was  the  only  avail 
able  place  in  which  to  display  it  at  present. 

When  Almira  returned  that  morning  her  mother  was  out 
in  the  garden  picking  vegetables  for  dinner.  She  followed 
her  there.  "  Mother,"  she  called,  "  I've  got  home !" 

The  woman  looked  up  and  saw  the  rosy  creature  stand 
ing  thsre  with  the  most  intense  and  unselfish  pleasure. 
"Well,"  said  she,  smiling  till  she  looked  foolish,  she  was  so 
pleased,  "what  did  the  folks  say  to  you,  Almiry?" 

"They  didn't  say  anything,  mother;  but — they  stared,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"  I'll  warrant  they  did  !  Now,  deary,  you'd  better  not 
stand  there  so  close  to  the  beans,  or  you'll  get  somethin'  on 


66  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

your  dress.  You'd  better  go  in  an'  change  it,  an'  git  rest' 
ed,  while  I  git  dinner." 

"  David  Ayres  sits  up  in  the  singing  seats,  and — you'd 
ought  to  have  seen  him  look  at  me,  mother,  once." 

"  I'll  warrant  he  did." 

The  mother  stared  fondly  after  the  girl  as  she  went  off 
across  the  green  field.  "  I  wish  David  Ayres  would  take  a 
shine  to  Almiry,"  said  she.  "  He's  a  good,  stiddy  young 
man,  an'  there  ain't  anybody  but  him  an'  his  mother  an' 
Caleb,  now  Mr.  Ayres  is  gone,  an'  there's  a  good  deal  of 
money  there.  Almiry  would  be  well  purvided  for.  P'r'aps 
he  will." 

When  Almira  came  into  the  house  she  went  straight  to 
her  own  room.  It  was  a  bedroom  opening  out  of  the  par 
lor.  Both  rooms  had  been  fitted  up  for  her  with  a  dainti 
ness  strange  to  the  rest  of  the  house.  Her  sleeping-room 
had  a  pretty  set  in  it,  and  a  lace  curtain  at  the  window;  the 
parlor  a  real  Brussels  carpet  and  stuffed  chairs.  Mrs.  King 
had  worked  hard  for  it,  but  she  was  amply  paid  by  the 
feeling  that  her  "  Almiry  had  as  pretty  a  room  to  set  in  as 
any  girl  in  Dover." 

The  glass  on  Almira's  bureau  would  not  tip  far  enough 
for  her  to  see  her  whole  figure,  so  she  stood  on  a  chair  be 
fore  it,  and  turned  round  and  round  admiring  herself.  She 
was  radiant  with  the  simplest  and  most  unconcealed  van 
ity.  "  I  do  look  so  beautiful !"  she  said,  quite  out  loud. 
The  memory  of  David  Ayres's  admiring  gaze  underlaid 
her  delight  in  herself,  and  strengthened  it.  Presently  she 
changed  the  beloved  dress  reluctantly  for  a  blue  muslin 
which  was  trimmed  with  lace,  and  pretty  too.  She  had  a 
good  many  dainty  appointments.  Everything  about  her,  to 
the  embroidery  on  her  under-clothing,  was  nice,  through  her 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  67 

homely  mother's  care.  She  lay  down  on  the  lounge  in  her 
parlor  then,  with  a  paper  of  sugar-plums  and  a  child's  paper. 
She  dearly  loved  little  pretty,  simple  tales  and  sugar-plums. 
She  heard  her  mother  in  the  kitchen  moving  about,  getting 
dinner,  but  she  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  helping 
her.  Still,  she  was  not  selfish.  She  had  only  been  brought 
up  in  unconsciousness  of  her  own  obligations,  and.  she  had 
not  keenness  of  wit  to  see  them  for  herself. 

Once  in  a  while  she  stopped  reading,  and  thought  about 
David  Ayres.  She  wondered,  should  she  go  to  evening 
meeting,  whether  he  would  ever  wait  on  her  home.  Pretty 
as  Almira  was,  no  Dover  young  man  had  ever  paid  her  the 
slightest  attention,  beyond  admiring  looks.  They  were 
kept  aloof  by  the  peculiarities  of  her  mother.  "  I've  a  great 
mind  to  go  to  meeting  to-night,"  reflected  Almira.  "  I  can't 
wear  my  pink  silk  in  the  evening,  but  I've  a  good  mind  to 

go." 

Two  weeks  from  that  day  there  was  a  disturbance  on  her 
account  in  the  Ayres  household. 

It  was  a  little  cooler  than  Sunday,  and  Mrs.  Ayres  had 
been  to  church — to  morning  and  afternoon  service  too — 
and  she  had  spent  the  nooning  at  her  married  son's,  Caleb, 
who  lived  in  the  village.  David  had  driven  home.  He 
had  some  things  to  see  to,  and  Susan  got  his  dinner  for 
him. 

When  the  mother  and  son  rode  home  together  finally, 
after  the  second  service  was  through,  he  knew  by  certain 
infallible  signs  in  her  face  that  something  was  wrong,  and 
he  felt  guiltily  what  it  was.  She  said  nothing  about  it  till 
they  reached  home  :  then,  when  he  had  put  his  horse  up, 
and  she  had  changed  her  best  black  silk,  the  reckoning 
came. 


68  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

He  started  off  for  a  stroll  across  the  pasture  ;  but  she  had 
kept  her  eyes  on  him,  and  called  him  back,  thrusting  her 
head  out  of  the  sitting-room  window.  "  Come  here,  David," 
said  she;  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  tried  to  have  the  talk  standing  outside  the  window, 
but  she  made  him  come  in.  So  he  stood  leaning  against 
the  sitting-room  door,  fingering  the  latch  impatiently,  while 
she  sat  facing  him  in  her  big  rocking-chair  by  the  window. 

"  David,"  she  began,  "  I  heard  something  about  you  over 
to  Caleb's  to-day,  and  I  want  to  know  if  it's  true.  I  heard 
you  were  going  with  that  King  girl ;  that  you've  been  wait 
ing  on  her  home  from  meeting,  and  taking  her  to  ride,  and_ 
that  that's  where  you  were  so  late  last  Sunday  night,  when 
I  thought  you  were  over  to  Caleb's.  I  want  to  know  if  it's 
true." 

The  stout  young  fellow  had  been  brought  up  with  a  dread 
of  his  fair-faced,  firm-handed  mother ;  he  looked  boyish  and 
blushing.  Then,  his  manhood  asserted  itself,  as  it  should 
now,  if  ever.  "  Yes,  mother,"  he  replied,  his  sober  eyes 
fixed  on  her ;  "  it's  true." 

"  You  don't  say  you  mean  to  marry  that  King  girl,  David 
Ayres  ?" 

"  I  think  I  shall,  mother— if  she'll  have  me." 

"  There  ain't  any  doubt  of  that,  I  guess.  David,  if  you 
marry  that  girl,  with  her  Spiritualist  mother,  you'll  kill  me." 

"Oh,  mother,  don't!" 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,  David.  You'll  kill  me.  You'll  have 
to  choose  between  your  mother  and  that  girl." 

The  hard  jaws  seemed  to  show  through  Mrs.  Ayres's  soft 
cheeks.  A  blue  tinge  appeared  round  her  mouth  and  nos 
trils.  There  was  an  ever-present  dread  in  the  Ayres  fam 
ily.  Healthy  as  Mrs.  Ayres  looked,  she  had  an  organic 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  69 

heart  trouble,  and  doctors  had  said  a  good  deal  about  the 
danger  of  over-excitement. 

David  looked  at  her  changing  face  in  alarm.  "Don't 
let's  talk  about  it  any  more  now,  mother,"  said  he,  soothing 
ly.  "  Don't  you  worry  over  it." 

But  she  was  not  to  be  put  off.  She  realized  the  ghastly 
vantage-ground  on  which  she  stood,  and  she  was  the  kind 
of  woman  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

"  David,  you  won't  marry  that  girl  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  whether  I  will  or  not  in  a  week,  mother, 
and  that's  the  best  I  can  do."  He  looked  astonishingly  like 
his  mother  as  he  said  it.  His  face  had  the  same  determi 
nation,  almost  obstinacy,  of  hers. 

She  eyed  him  sharply,  and  gave  in.     "  Well,"  said  she. 

All  that  week  she  hardly  seemed  like  the  same  woman 
to  him.  She  petted  and  caressed  him  as  she  had  never 
done  before.  She  descended  to  womanish  wiles  to  accom 
plish  her  ends,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  But,  if  she  had 
known  it,  all  this  had  no  effect  whatever  on  her  son.  He 
had  too  much  shrewd  sense  not  to  see  through  it,  and  feel 
almost  an  angry  contempt  for  his  mother  in  consequence. 
Her  health  and  the  fear  of  injuring  her  were  the  only  things 
which  moved  him. 

The  next  Sunday  he  told  her,  with  inward  shame  and 
bitterness,  that  he  would  give  up  the  girl.  He  felt  as  if  he 
was  giving  up  his  manhood  at  the  same  time.  He  had  tried 
arguing  with  his  mother  a  little,  but  found  it  useless.  The 
girl's  mother  was  her  ground  of  objection,  and  she  stood 
firmly  on  it,  no  matter  how  plainly  her  unreasonableness 
was  shown  to  her. 

"  I'd  rather  you'd  die  than  marry  into  such  a  family.  Da 
vid,"  she  had  said  once. 


7o  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

So  David  kept  aloof  from  pretty  Almira,  and  the  girl 
began  to  fret.  She  did  not  conceal  her  grief  from  her  moth 
er — she  was  too  dependent  on  her,  and  she  was  not  that 
kind  of  a  girl.  When  she  came  home  from  meeting  alone 
she  cried  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  and  many  a  time  the 
two  watched  hand  in  hand  by  the  parlor  window  for  the 
lover  who  did  not  come. 

Almira  had  really  reason  to  feel  aggrieved  David's 
courtship,  though  so  short,  had  been  precipitate,  after  the 
artless  country  fashion.  Enough  had  been  done  to  raise 
her  expectations,  though  there  was  nothing  binding. 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  and  she  received  no  attention 
from  David  beyond  an  occasional  evasive  nod  as  he  drove 
past,  her  spirits  drooped  more  and  more.  She  had  never  had 
any  trouble,  and  she  was  bewildered.  This  was  her  first 
lover,  and  she  had  not  known  any  better  than  to  begin  lov 
ing  him  vehemently. 

She  tried  to  attract  him  back  in  all  the  pretty,  silent  little 
ways  she  could  think  of;  she  could  not  take  any  bold  step, 
she  was  too  modest.  She  would  sit  on  the  door-step,  in  a 
pretty  dress,  with  her  hair  carefully  done  up,  when  she 
thought  he  might  pass  by. 

She  went  to  church  in  her  pink  silk,  and  glanced  timidly 
and  wistfully  up  at  him  when  the  choir  was  singing;  but 
David  would  sing  sternly  on  and  never  look  at  her. 

Then  she  would  go  home  feeling  that  there  was  no  use  in 
having  a  pink  silk  dress  or  a  pretty  face.  This  poor  little 
rose  of  a  girl,  of  a  Sunday  night,  after  her  lover  had  slight 
ed  her  still  once  more,  might  as  well  have  been  a  burdock 
weed  or  a  ragged  robin  for  all  the  satisfaction  she  took  in 
being  a  rose. 

She  altered  in  her  looks ;  her  simple,  smiling  face  grew 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  7! 

thin  and  pitiful.  Her  mother  studied  it  like  a  chapter  in 
which  her  own  future  sorrows  were  written  out. 

Mrs.  King  worked  in  the  field  and  garden  like  a  man,  and 
many  a  time  she  tramped  home  through  the  hot  sun  just  to 
get  one  look  at  Almira,  then  back  again.  She  was  an  en 
ergetic  woman.  For  years  before  the  death  of  her  husband, 
who  had  been  an  invalid  a  long  time,  she  had  managed  the 
little  farm  herself,  and  successfully  too.  She  had  petted 
and  taken  care  of  her  husband,  who  had  been  a  gentle, 
slow-motioned  man,  as  she  petted  and  took  care  of  Almira 
now.  He  was  some  ten  years  younger  than  she.  She  had 
assumed  the  management  of  affairs  from  the  first,  after  he 
married  her,  a  stout  hired  girl  in  a  neighboring  farmhouse. 
He  had  really  been  incapable  himself  of  carrying  on  this 
little  farm,  which  his  father  had  left  him. 

Every  little  luxury  which  she  could  procure  for  Almira 
she  always  had  from  her  earliest  childhood.  Now  that  this 
trouble  had  come  upon  her,  she  did  more  ;  she  relinquished 
for  the  time  a  habit  of  depositing  small  sums  from  her  earn 
ings  in  the  savings-bank,  at  fixed  intervals,  for  future  emer 
gencies.  She  planned  many  a  surprise  for  Almira  in  the 
way  of  new  gowns  and  trinkets.  The  girl  was  young  and 
trifling  enough  to  brighten  momentarily  at  the  sight  of  them, 
and  that  was  ample  payment  for  her  mother.  But  as  soon 
as  she  had  worn  them,  and  found  that  David  did  not  notice 
her  any  more  on  their  account,  the  brightness  died  away. 
Mrs.  King  spent  money  recklessly  in  those  days,  such  hard- 
earned  money  too.  "  What's  the  use  of  my  layin'  up  mon 
ey,"  she  asked  herself,  'an'  Almiry  lookin'  like  that  ?" 

Finally  the  mother  grew  almost  desperate.  She  suffered 
far  more  than  her  daughter ;  she  watched  for  David's  com 
ing  with  a  stronger  anxiety.  She  began  to  form  wild  plans 


72  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

for  bettering  matters.  She  even  thought  of  arresting  the 
young  man,  on  his  way  past  the  house  some  day,  and  freeing 
her  mind  to  him.  She  thought  of  going  to  see  his  mother. 
But,  coarse  and  unwomanly  as  she  was  in  appearance,  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  womanly  modesty  in  her;  she  shrank 
from  those  measures,  though  sometimes,  watching  David 
ride  by,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  kill  him. 

One  day  she  spied  Susan  Means,  the  Ayres'  hired  woman, 
walking  past,  and  she  called  her  in.  She  was  just  up  from 
the  potato-field  herself;  Almira  had  gone  to  the  village  on 
an  errand. 

"  Susan,"  she  called,  standing  in  the  door,  "come  in  here 
a  minute ;  I  want  to  see  you." 

The  woman  looked  wonderingly  at  a  point  a  foot  or  more 
to  the  left  of  her  with  her  crooked  eyes;  then  she  came  up 
the  walk. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  King.  "I  want  to  ask  you  some- 
thin'.  I  want  to  ask  you,"  she  went  on,  outwardly  defiant, 
when  the  two  stood  together  in  the  kitchen,  "ef  you  know 
what  Mis'  Ayres's  David  has  been  treating  my  Almiry  so 
fur  ?" 

"I  don'  know  what  you  mean,  as  I  knows  on,"  replied 
the  other,  smiling  strangely  at  the  cupboard-door.  She  was 
a  good-humored  soul,  but  the  twist  in  her  eyes  gave  her  an 
appearance  of  uncanniness  and  mystery.  Mrs.  King,  direct 
and  fierce,  fired  up  in  unreasonable  wrath. 

"  I  guess  you  know,"  said  she  ;  "  everybody  knows.  I'll 
warrant  you've  heerd  it  talked  about  enough.  I  want  to 
know  what  David  Ayres  has  been  foolin'  round  Almiry  King 
fur,  an'  gittin'  her  all  upset,  an'  then  leavin'  her — that's 
what  I  want  to  know." 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  Susan  had  known  what  Mrs. 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  73 

King  meant,  but  she  had  been  scared,  and  her  little  wits 
had  taught  her  to  evade  the  question.  She  probably  knew 
much  more  about  the  state  of  affairs  than  either  David  or 
his  mother  thought.  She  often  imbibed  more  than  her 
mental  capacity  was  considered  equal  to.  It  takes  a  wise 
person  to  gauge  another's  mind  and  find  the  true  bottom. 
She  kept  on  smiling  strangely  at  the  cupboard-door. 

"  I've  heerd  a  little,"  said  she,  "  ef  you  want  to  know." 

"  I  do  want  to  know.  I'll  let  'em  know  they  can't  go 
foolin'  'round  my  girl." 

"You'll  be  mad." 

"  No,  I  won't  be  mad.     Out  with  it." 

"  I  don'  know  as  it's  anythin'  Mis'  Ayres  has  got  agin 
Almiry,  but  she's  kinder  sot  agin  you." 

"What's  she  sot  agin  me  fur?" 

"Wa'al,  I  guess  it's  on  account  of  your  wearin'  your 
dresses  half-way  up  to  your  knees,  and  them  cowhide 
shoes,  and  that  hat,  and  hevin'  your  hair  cut  so  short.  But 
I  guess  it's  mainly  'cause  you  air  a  Spiritualist." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  Accordin'  to  what  I've  heerd,  it's  so." 

Mrs.  King  did  not  know  when  the  woman  went.  She 
stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  dazed,  till  Almira  came  in. 
"  Is  it  me  ?"  she  had  muttered  once ;  "  an'  I  willin'  to  die 
for  her  !  O  Lord  !" 

Almira  stared  at  her  when  she  entered  the  kitchen. 

"  What's  the  matter,  mother  ?" 

"Nothin',  deary." 

Next  Sunday  there  was  a  greater  sensation  in  the  ortho 
dox  church  than  there  had  been  over  Almira  in  her  pink 
silk.  The  girl  was  not  there — she  was  hardly  well  enough 
that  day — but  her  mother  walked  up  the  aisle  when  the  bell 


74  A  MODERN  DRAGON. 

first  began  to  toll.  People  stared,  doubtful  if  they  knew 
her.  She  had  on  a  decent  long  black  dress  and  a  neat  bon 
net.  Her  short  hair  had  given  way  to  a  braided  knot.  She 
sat  in  the  pew  and  listened  solemnly  to  the  sermon,  regard 
less  of  the  attention  she  excited.  All  she  took  pains  to  no 
tice  was  that  David  Ayres  and  his  mother  were  there.  She 
made  sure  of  that,  and  that  they  were  looking  at  her. 

When  she  got  home,  Almira  was  lying  on  the  lounge  in 
her  room.  She  had  been  crying ;  her  eyes  were  red  with 
tears.  Her  mother  sat  down,  and  looked  at  her  with  won 
derful  love  and  hope.  "  Don't  cry,  deary,"  said  she.  "  I 
shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  he  came  to-night.  That's  been 
all  the  trouble,  the  girl  said,  an'  now  I've  fixed  that  all  right. 
I  let  my  dress  down,  an1  got  the  switch,  an'  I've  been  to 
meetin'.  He'll  be  along  to-night." 

But  he  was  not.  Through  the  next  week  Mrs.  King  toil 
ing  in  her  field,  of  a  necessity  still  in  the  short  dress  and 
heavy  shoes,  had  a  demeanor  like  a  hunted  criminal.  She 
kept  a  constant  lookout  on  the  road ;  if  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  David  Ayres  coming,  she  hid.  He  should  never  see  her 
again  in  the  costume  which  had  weaned  him  from  Almira. 
If  she  had  been  able  she  would  have  hired  a  man  for  this 
work  now;  but  she  had  spent  too  much  money  in  other 
ways  of  late.  She  thought  surely  the  young  man  would 
come  on  the  next  Sabbath.  But  he  did  not.  Then  she 
ventured  on  a  decisive  step,  goaded  on  by  Almira's  pitiful 
face.  There  really  was  occasion  for  alarm  on  the  girl's  ac 
count.  She  inherited  a  weak,  spiritless  constitution  from 
her  father,  and  a  slight  cause  might  exhaust  what  little 
stamina  she  possessed.  She  might  drift  into  nervous  inva- 
lidism,  if  she  did  not  die. 

Mrs.  King  tied  on  her  new  switch  with  infinite  difficulty, 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  75 

arrayed  herself  in  her  long  skirts,  and  walked  a  mile  and  a 
half  to  see  David  Ayres's  mother.  The  interview  between 
the  two  women  was  at  once  pitiful  and  comical.  Mrs.  Ayres, 
her  whole  soul  set  against  the  marriage  of  her  son  with  this 
woman's  daughter,  was  immovably  hard.  She  sat  like  a 
stone,  and  listened  to  the  other's  rough  eloquence.  "  I've 
done  the  best  I  could,"  said  Mrs.  King,  humbling  herself 
unshrinkingly.  "  I  know  I  ain't  looked  an'  dressed  jest 
like  other  folks  ;  but  now  I'm  a-doin'  different.  I've  got  a 
switch,  an'  done  up  my  hair  like  other  women,  an'  I've  let 
down  my  dress.  I've  been  to  meetin'  too,  an'  I'm  goin' 
right  along.  I  ain't  ever  been  much  of  a  Spiritualist.  I 
got  led  into  it  a  leetle  after  Samuel  died,  an'  I've  took 
some  papers.  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  any  more." 

It  was  all  of  no  use.  Mrs.  Ayres  hardly  gave  any  re 
sponse  at  all ;  she  was  almost  wordless.  All  her  anxiety 
was  lest  David  should  come  in  while  Almira's  mother  was 
there  ;  but  he  did  not.  Finally  the  poor  woman  went  home. 
She  had  gotten  no  satisfaction  at  all.  She  had  humbled 
herself,  at  the  last  she  had  stormed,  all  to  no  purpose.  Now 
she  was  hopeless.  She  had  a  rude  physical  sturditaess 
about  her  that  had  seemed  to  extend  to  her  inmost  nature. 
But  it  hardly  had.  If  it  had,  it  was  by  reason  of  her  unsel 
fish  affections.  At  heart  she  had  always  been  almost  as 
simple  and  yielding  as  Almira  herself.  She  was  a  thorough 
ly  feminine  creature  in  her  masculine  attire,  with  her  rough 
voice.  As  the  days  went  .on,  and  she  saw  her  daughter 
fretting,  and  felt  helpless  to  aid  her,  her  own  strength  failed 
slowly,  though  she  did  not  know  it.  There  had  probably 
been  some  weak  fibre  in  her,  which  could  not  stand  a  hard 
strain,  in  spite  of  her  appearance  of  strength.  She  had 
never  been  ill  in  her  life  ;  she  felt  new  sensations  now,  with- 


76  A   MODERN  DRAGON. 

out  realizing  what  they  meant.  She  was  worrying  herself 
to  death  without  knowing  it.  She  worked  harder  and 
harder.  She  had  never  toiled  in  her  life  as  she  did  in 
the  late  summer  and  early  autumn  of  that  year,  with  Almi- 
ra's  sad  young  face  taking  all  the  sweetness  out  of  the  labor. 

At  last  she  came  in  one  afternoon,  and  fainted  on  the 
threshold.  Almira,  almost  beside  herself,  called  in  a  neigh 
bor  and  sent  for  the  doctor.  It  was  a  sudden,  violent  attack, 
induced  finally,  perhaps,  by  an  error  in  diet,  or  a  cold,  but 
superinduced  by  her  wearing  anxiety.  She  never  got  off 
the  bed  in  her  poor  little  bedroom  again.  Her  room 
opened  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  was  not  much  like  Almira's. 

After  she  came  out  of  her  first  swoon,  she  was  conscious 
till  she  died — the  next  day.  She  knew  how  it  was  going 
to  end  with  her  from  the  first,  though  she  made  the  doctor 
tell  her  the  next  afternoon.  Then,  with  a  sudden  resolu 
tion,  she  asked  him  to  go  for  David  Ayres.  "  Thar's  been 
trouble  betwixt  him  and  my  girl,"  said  she,  "  that  has  got  to 
be  set  right  afore  I  go." 

So  David  came,  and  stood  with  Almira  beside  her  bed. 
She  was  suffering  a  good  deal  of  pain,  but  she  had  nerve 
enough  to  disregard  it. 

"  I've  been  betwixt  you  an'  Almiry,"  said  she,  "  an'  thar 
didn't  seem  to  be  no  way  of  settin'  it  right  but  this,  though 
I  tried.  I've  heerd  how  you  felt  about  it,  an'  I  dare  say  it 
was  nateral.  I  don't  lay  up  nothin'.  All  is,  ef  you  don't 
marry  Almiry  now,  an'  take  care  of  her,  an'  make  her  happy, 
may  the  Lord  never  forgive  you  for  triflin'  with  her !" 

"  Oh,"  cried  David,  "  I  will  never  think  of  anybody  but 
Almira  all  my  life.  I'll  marry  her  to-morrow." 

"  Then  it's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  King,  and  ended  the  word 
with  a  groan. 


A   MODERN  DRAGON.  77 

The  young  man  stood  there,  his  face  white  through  the 
tan.  He  was  beside  himself  with  pity  and  shame  ;  but  he 
could  not  say  a  word.  He  almost  hated  his  narrow-minded 
mother.  , 

"  I'd  like  to  see  you  take  hold  on  Almiry's  hand,"  said 
Mrs.  King,  gasping  again.  "  I  want  to  see  you  look  happy 
and  smilin'  agin,  deary,  the  way  you  used  to." 

David  caught  hold  of  Almira's  hand  with  a  great  sob. 
But  she  threw  his  away,  and  flung  herself  down  on  her 
knees  by  her  mother's  bed. 

"  Oh,  mother !  mother  !  mother  !"  she  sobbed.     "  I  love 
you  best !  I  do  love  you  best !  I  always  will !  I  never  will 
love  him  as  much  as  I  did  you.     I  promise  you." 
6 


AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

"THAR'S  Mis'  Bliss's  pieces  in  the  brown  kaliker  bag, 
an'  thar's  Mis'  Bennet's  pieces  in  the  bed-tickin'  bag,"  said 
she,  surveying  complacently  the  two  bags  leaning  against 
her  kitchen -wall.  "I'll  get  a  dollar  for  both  of  them 
quilts,  an'  thar'll  be  two  dollars.  I've  got  a  dollar  an' 
sixty-three  cents  on  hand  now,  an'  thar's  plenty  of  meal  an' 
merlasses,  an'  some  salt  fish  an'  pertaters  in  the  house. 
I'll  get  along  midcllin'  well,  I  reckon.  Thar  ain't  no  call 
fer  me  to  worry.  I'll  red  up  the  house  a  leetle  now,  an' 
then  I'll  begin  on  Mis'  Bliss's  pieces." 

The  house  was  an  infinitesimal  affair,  containing  only  two 
rooms  besides  the  tiny  lean-to  which  served  as  wood-shed. 
It  stood  far  enough  back  from  the  road  for  a  pretentious 
mansion,  and  there  was  one  curious  feature  about  it — not  a 
door  nor  window  was  there  in  front,  only  a  blank,  unbroken 
wall.  Strangers  passing  by  used  to  stare  wonderingly  'at 
it  sometimes,  but  it  was  explained  easily  enough.  Old 
Simeon  Patch,  years  ago,  when  the  longing  for  a  home  of 
his  own  had  grown  strong  in  his  heart,  and  he  had  only  a 
few  hundred  dollars  saved  from  his  hard  earnings  to  invest 
in  one,  had  wisely  done  the  best  he  could  with  what  he  had. 

Not  much  remained  to  spend  on  the  house  after  the  spa 
cious  lot  was  paid  for,  so  he  resolved  to  build  as  much 


AN  HONEST  SOUL.  79 

house  as  he  could  with  his  money,  and  complete  it  when 
better  days  should  come. 

This  tiny  edifice  was  in  reality  simply  the  L  of  a  goodly 
two-story  house  which  had  existed  only  in  the  fond  and 
faithful  fancies  of  Simeon  Patch  and  his  wife.  That  blank 
front  wall  was  designed  to  be  joined  to  the  projected  main 
building  ;  so,  of  course,  there  was  no  need  of  doors  or  win- 
•dows.  Simeon  Patch  came  of  a  hard-working,  honest  race, 
whose  pride  it  had  been  to  keep  out  of  debt,  and  he  was  a 
true  child  of  his  ancestors.  Not  a  dollar  would  he  spend 
that  was  not  in  his  hand  ;  a  mortgaged  house  was  his  horror. 
So  he  paid  cash  for  every  blade  of  grass  on  his  lot  of  land, 
and  every  nail  in  his  bit  of  a  house,  and  settled  down  pa 
tiently  in  it  until  he  should  grub  together  enough  more  to 
buy  a  few  additional  boards  and  shingles,  and  pay  the 
money  down. 

That  time  never  came  :  he  died  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years,  after  a  lingering  illness,  and  only  had  enough  saved 
to  pay  his  doctor's  bill  and  funeral  expenses,  and  leave  his 
wife  and  daughter  entirely  without  debt,  in  their  little  frag 
ment  of  a  house  on  the  big,  sorry  lot  of  land. 

There  they  had  lived,  mother  and  daughter,  earning  and 
saving  in  various  little,  petty  ways,  keeping  their  heads 
sturdily  above  water,  and  holding  the  dreaded  mortgage 
off  the  house  for  many  years.  Then  the  mother  died,  and 
the  daughter,  Martha  Patch,  took  up  the  little  homely 
struggle  alone.  She  was  over  seventy  now — a  small,  slen 
der  old  woman,  as  straight  as  a  rail,  with  sharp  black  eyes, 
and  a  quick  toss  of  her  head  when  she  spoke.  She  did 
odd  housewifely  jobs  for  the  neighbors,  wove  rag-carpets, 
pieced  bed-quilts,  braided  rugs,  etc.,  and  contrived  to  sup 
ply  all  her  simple  wants. 


go  AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

This  evening,  after  she  had  finished  putting  her  house 
to  rights,  she  fell  to  investigating  the  contents  of  the  bags 
which  two  of  the  neighbors  had  brought  in  the  night  before, 
with  orders  for  quilts,  much  to  her  delight. 

"  Mis'  Bliss  has  got  proper  handsome  pieces,"  said  she — 
"proper  handsome  ;  they'll  make  a  good-lookin'  quilt.  'Mis' 
Bennet's  is  good  too,  but  they  ain't  quite  ekal  to  Mis' 
Bliss's.  I  reckon  some  of  'em's  old." 

She  began  spreading  some  of  the  largest,  prettiest  pieces 
on  her  white-scoured  table.  "  Thar,"  said  she,  gazing  at 
one  admiringly,  "  that  jest  takes  my  eye  ;  them  leetle  pink 
roses  is  pretty,  an'  no  mistake.  I  reckon  that's  French  cal- 
iker.  Thar's  some  big  pieces  too.  Lor',  what  bag  did  I 
take  'em  out  on  !  It  must  hev  been  Mis'  Bliss's.  I  mustn't 
git  'em  mixed." 

She  cut  out  some  squares,  and  sat  down  by  the  window  in 
a  low  wooden  rocking-chair  to  sew.  This  window  did  not 
have  a  very  pleasant  outlook.  The  house  was  situated  so 
far  back  from  the  road  that  it  commanded  only  a  rear  view 
of  the  adjoining  one.  It  was  a  great  cross  to  Martha  Patch. 
She  was  one  of  those  women  who  like  to  see  everything 
that  is  going  on  outside,  and  who  often  have  excuse  enough 
in  the  fact  that  so  little  is  going  on  with  them* 

"It's  a  great  divarsion,"  she  used  to  say,  in  her  snapping 
way,  which  was  more  nervous  than  ill-natured,  bobbing  her 
head  violently  at  the  same  time — "  a  very  great  divarsion  to 
see  Mr.  Peters's  cows  goin'  in  an'  out  of  the  barn  day  arter 
day ;  an'  that's  about  all  I  do  see — never  git  a  sight  of  the 
folks  goin'  to  meetin'  nor  nothin'." 

The  lack  of  a  front  window  was  a  continual  source  of 
grief  to  her. 

"  When  the  minister's  prayin'  for  the  widders  an'  orphans 


AN  HONEST  SOUL.  8l 

he'd  better  make  mention  of  one  more,"  said  she,  once, 
"an'  that's  women  without  front  winders." 

She  and  her  mother  had  planned  to  save  money  enough 
to  have  one  some  day,  but  they  had  never  been  able  to 
bring  it  about.  A  window  commanding  a  view  of  the  street 
and  the  passers-by  would  have  been  a  great  source  of  com 
fort  to  the  poor  old  woman,  sitting  and  sewing  as  she  did 
day  in  and  day  out.  As  it  was,  she  seized  eagerly  upon  the 
few  objects  of  interest  which  did  come  within  her  vision,  and 
made  much  of  them.  There  were  some  children  who,  on 
their  way  from  school,  could  make  a  short  cut  through  her 
yard  and  reach  home  quicker.  She  watched  for  them  every 
day,  and  if  they  did  not  appear  quite  as  soon  as  usual  she 
would  grow  uneasy,  and  eye  the  clock,  and  mutter  to  her 
self,  "I  wonder  where  them  Mosely  children  can  be?" 
When  they  came  she  watched  their  progress  with  sharp  at 
tention,  and  thought  them  over  for  an  hour  afterwards. 
Not  a  bird  which  passed  her  window  escaped  her  notice. 
This  innocent  old  gossip  fed  her  mind  upon  their  small  do 
mestic  affairs  in  lieu  of  larger  ones.  To-day  she  often 
paused  between  her  stitches  to  gaze  absorbedly  at  a  yellow- 
bird  vibrating  nervously  round  the  branches  of  a  young  tree 
opposite.  It  was  early  spring,  and  the  branches  were  all 
of -a  light-green  foam. 

"  That's  the  same  yaller-bird  I  saw  yesterday,  I  do  b'lieve," 
said  she.  "  I  recken  he's  goin'  to  build  a  nest  in  that 
ellum." 

Lately  she  had  been  watching  the  progress  of  the  grass 
gradually  springing  up  all  over  the  yard.  One  spot  where 
it  grew  much  greener  than  elsewhere  her  mind  dwelt  upon 
curiously. 

"I  can't  make  out,"  she  said  to  a  neighbor,  "whether 


82  AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

that  'ere  spot  is  greener  than  the  rest  because  the  sun 
shines  brightly  thar,  or  because  somethin's  buried  thar." 

She  toiled  steadily  on  the  patchwork  quilts.  At  the  end 
of  a  fortnight  they  were  nearly  completed.  She  hurried  on 
the  last  one  morning,  thinking  she  would  carry  them  both 
to  their  owners  that  afternoon  and  get  her  pay.  She  did 
not  stop  for  any  dinner. 

Spreading  them  out  for  one  last  look  before  rolling  them 
up  in  bundles,  she  caught  her  breath  hastily. 

"  What  hev  I  done  ?"  said  she.  "  Massy  sakes  !  I  hevn't 
gone  an'  put  Mis'  Bliss's  caliker  with  the  leetle  pink  roses 
on't  in  Mis'  Bennet's  quilt?  I  hev,  jest  as  sure  as  preach- 
in'!  What  shell  I  do?" 

The  poor  old  soul  stood  staring  at  the  quilts  in  pitiful 
dismay.  "A  hull  fortni't's  work,"  she  muttered.  "What 
shell  I  do  ?  Them  pink  roses  is  the  prettiest  caliker  in  the 
hull  lot.  Mis'  Bliss  will  be  mad  if  they  air  in  Mis'  Bennet's 
quilt.  She  won't  say  nothin',  an'  she'll  pay  me,  but  she'll 
feel  it  inside,  an'  it  won't  be  doin'  the  squar'  thing  by  her. 
No;  if  I'm  goin'  to  aim  money  I'll  aim  it." 

Martha  Patch  gave  her  head  a  jerk.  The  spirit  which 
animated  her  father  when  he  went  to  housekeeping  in  a 
piece  of  a  house  without  any  front  window  blazed  up  within 
her.  She  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea,  then  sat  deliberately 
down  by  the  window  to  rip  the  quilts  to  pieces.  It  had  to 
be  done  pretty  thoroughly  on  account  of  her  admiration  for 
the  pink  calico,  and  the  quantity  of  it — it  figured  in  nearly 
every  square.  "  I  wish  I  hed  a  front  winder  to  set  to  while 
I'm  doin'  on't,"  said  she ;  but  she  patiently  plied  her  scis 
sors  till  dusk,  only  stopping  for  a  short  survey  of  the  Mosely 
children.  After  clays  of  steady  work  the  pieces  were  put 
together  again,  this  time  the  pink-rose  calico  in  Mrs.  Bliss's 


AN  HONEST  SOUL.  83 

quilt.     Martha  Patch  rolled  the  quilts  up  with  a  sigh  of  re 
lief  and  a  sense  of  virtuous  triumph. 

"  I'll  sort  over  the  pieces  that's  left  in  the  bags,"  said 
she,  "  then  I'll  take  'em  over  an'  git  my  pay.  I'm  gittin' 
pretty  short  of  vittles." 

She  began  pulling  the  pieces  out  of  the  bed-ticking  bag, 
laying  them  on  her  lap  and  smoothing  them  out,  prepara 
tory  to  doing  them  up  in  a  neat,  tight  roll  to  take  home — 
she  was  very  methodical  about  everything  she  did.  Sud 
denly  she  turned  pale,  and  stared  wildly  at  a  tiny  scrap  of 
calico  which  she  had  just  fished  out  of  the  bag. 

"  Massy  sakes  !"  she  cried ;  "  it  ain't,  is  it  ?"  She  clutched 
Mrs.  Bliss's  quilt  from  the  table  and  laid  the  bit  of  calico 
beside  the  pink-rose  squares. 

"It's  jest  the  same  thing,"  she  groaned,  "an'  it  came  out 
on  Mis'  Bennet's  bag.  Dear  me  suz  !  dear  me  suz  !" 

She  dropped  helplessly  into  her  chair  by  the  window, 
still  holding  the  quilt  and  the  telltale  scrap  of  calico,  and 
gazed  out  in  a  bewildered  sort  of  way.  Her  poor  old  eyes 
looked  dim  and  weak  with  tears. 

"  Thar's  the  Mosely  children  comin',"  she  said ;  "  happy 
little  gals,  laughin'  an'  hollerin',  goin'  home  to  their  mother 
to  git  a  good  dinner.  Me  a-settin'  here's  a  lesson  they 
ain't  lamed  in  their  books  yit ;  hope  to  goodness  they  never 
will;  hope  they  won't  ever  hev  to  piece  quilts  fur  a  livin', 
without  any  front  winder  to  set  to.  Thar's  a  dandelion 
blown  out  on  that  green  spot.  Reckon  thar  is  somethin' 
buried  thar.  Lordy  massy !  hev  I  got  to  rip  them  two 
quilts  to  pieces  agin  an'  sew  'em  over?" 

Finally  she  resolved  to  carry  a  bit  of  the  pink-rose  calico 
over  to  Mrs.  Bennet's  and  find  out,  without  betraying  the 
dilemma  she  was  in,  if  it  were  really  hers. 


84  AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

Her  poor  old  knees  fairly  shook  under  her  when  she  en 
tered  Mrs.  Bennet's  sitting-room. 

"  Why,  yes,  Martha,  it's  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  in  re 
sponse  to  her  agitated  question.  "  Hattie  had  a  dress  like 
it,  don't  you  remember  ?  There  was  a  lot  of  new  pieces 
left,  and  I  thought  they  would  work  into  a  quilt  nice.  But, 
for  pity's  sake,  Martha,  what  is  the  matter?  You  look  just 
as  white  as  a  sheet.  You  ain't  sick,  are  you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Martha,  with  a  feeble  toss  of  her  head,  to 
keep  up  the  deception  ;  "  I  ain't  sick,  only  kinder  all  gone 
with  the  warm  weather.  I  reckon  I'll  hev  to  fix  me  up 
some  thoroughwort  tea.  Thoroughwort's  a  great  strength- 
ener." 

"  I  would,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  sympathizingly ;  "and  don't 
you  work  too  hard  on  that  quilt ;  I  ain't  in  a  bit  of  a  hurry 
for  it.  I  sha'n't  want  it  before  next  winter  anyway.  I  only 
thought  I'd  like  to  have  it  pieced  and  ready." 

"  I  reckon  I  can't  get  it  done  afore  another  fortni't,"  said 
Martha,  trembling. 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  don't  get  it  done  for  the  next  three 
months.  Don't  go  yet,  Martha ;  you  ain't  rested  a  minute, 
and  it's  a  pretty  long  walk.  Don't  you  want  a  bite  of  some 
thing  before  you  go?  Have  a  piece  of  cake?  You  look 
real  faint." 

"  No,  thanky,"  said  Martha,  and  departed  in  spite  of  all 
friendly  entreaties  to  tarry.  Mrs.  Bennet  watched  her  mov 
ing  slowly  down  the  road,  still  holding  the  little  pink  calico 
rag  in  her  brown,  withered  fingers. 

"  Martha  Patch  is  failing ;  she  ain't  near  so  straight  as 
she  was,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bennet.  "She  looks  real  bent 
over  to-day." 

The  little  wiry  springiness  was,  indeed,  gone  from  her 


AN-  HONEST  SOUL.  85 

gait  as  she  crept  slowly  along  the  sweet  country  road,  and 
there  was  a  helpless  droop  in  her  thin,  narrow  shoulders. 
It  was  a  beautiful  spring  day;  the  fruit-trees  were  all  in 
blossom.  There  were  more  orchards  than  houses  on  the 
way,  and  more  blooming  trees  to  pass  than  people. 

Martha  looked  up  at  the  white  branches  as  she  passed 
under  them.  "I  kin  smell  the  apple-blows,"  said  she, 
"  but  somehow  the  goodness  is  all  gone  out  on  'em.  I'd 
jest  as  soon  smell  cabbage.  Oh,  dear  me  suz,  kin  I  ever 
do  them  quilts  over  agin  ?" 

When  she  got  home,  however,  she  rallied  a  little.  There 
was  a  nervous  force  about  this  old  woman  which  was  not 
easily  overcome  even  by  an  accumulation  of  misfortunes. 
She  might  bend  a  good  deal,  but  she  was  almost  sure  to 
spring  back  again.  She  took  off  her  hood  and  shawl,  and 
straightened  herself  up.  "Thar's  no  use  puttin'  it  off;  it's 
got  to  be  done.  I'll  hev  them  quilts  right  ef  it  kills  me  !" 

She  tied  on  a  purple  calico  apron  and  sat  down  at  the 
window  again,  with  a  quilt  and  the  scissors.  Out  came  the 
pink  roses.  There  she  sat  through  the  long  afternoon,  cut 
ting  the  stitches  which  she  had  so  laboriously  put  in — a  lit 
tle  defiant  old  figure,  its  head,  with  a  flat  black  lace  cap  on 
it,  bobbing  up  and  down  in  time  with  its  hands.  There 
were  some  purple  bows  on  the  cap,  and  they  fluttered  ; 
quite  a  little  wind  blew  in  at  the  window. 

The  eight-day  clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  peacefully.  It 
was  a  queer  old  timepiece,  which  had  belonged  to  her 
grandmother  Patch.  A  painting  of  a  quaint  female,  with 
puffed  hair  and  a  bunch  of  roses,  adorned  the  front  of  it, 
under  the  dial-plate.  It  was  flanked  on  either  side  by  tall, 
green  vases. 

There  was  a  dull-colored  rag- carpet  of  Martha's  own 


86  AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

manufacture  on  the  floor  of  the  room.  Some  wooden  chairs 
stood  around  stiffly ;  an  old,  yellow  map  of  Massachusetts 
and  a  portrait  of  George  Washington  hung  on  the  walls. 
There  was  not  a  speck  of  dust  anywhere,  nor  any  disorder. 
Neatness  was  one  of  the  comforts  of  Martha's  life.  Put 
ting  and  keeping  things  in  order  was  one  of  the  interests 
which  enlivened  her  dulness  and  made  the  world  attractive 
to  her. 

The  poor  soul  sat  at  the  window,  bending  over  the  quilt, 
until  dusk,  and  she  sat  there,  bending  over  the  quilt  until 
dusk,  many  a  day  after. 

It  is  a  hard  question  to  decide,  whether  there  were  any 
real  merit  in  such  finely  strained  honesty,  or  whether  it  were 
merely  a  case  of  morbid  conscientiousness.  Perhaps  the 
old  woman,  inheriting  very  likely  her  father's  scruples,  had 
had  them  so  intensified  by  age  and  childishness  that  they 
had  become  a  little  off  the  bias  of  reason. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  she  thought  it  was  the  right  course  for 
her  to  make  the  quilts  over,  and,  thinking  so,  it  was  all  that 
she  could  do.  She  could  never  have  been  satisfied  other 
wise.  It  took  her  a  considerable  while  longer  to  finish  the 
quilts  again,  and  this  time  she  began  to  suffer  from  other 
causes  than  mere  fatigue.  Her  stock  of  provisions  com 
menced  to  run  low,  and  her  money  was  gone.  At  last  she 
had  nothing  but  a  few  potatoes  in  the  house  to  eat.  She 
contrived  to  dig  some  dandelion  greens  once  or  twice ; 
these  with  the  potatoes  were  all  her  diet.  There  was  really 
no  necessity  for  such  a  state  of  things  ;  she  was  surrounded 
by  kindly  well-to-do  people,  who  would  have  gone  without 
themselves  rather  than  let  her  suffer.  But  she  had  always 
been  very  reticent  about  her  needs,  and  felt  great  pride 
about  accepting  anything  for  which  she  did  not  pay. 


AN  HONEST  SOUL.  87 

But  she  struggled  along  until  the  quilts  were  done,  and 
no  one  knew.  She  set  the  last  stitch  quite  late  one  even 
ing;  then  she  spread  the  quilts  out  and  surveyed  them. 
"  Thar  they  air  now,  all  right,"  said  she ;  "  the  pink  roses 
is  in  Mis'  Bennet's,  an'  I  ain't  cheated  nobody  out  on  their 
caliker,  an'  I've  aimed  my  money.  I'll  take  'em  hum  in 
the  mornin',  an'  then  I'll  buy  somethin'  to  eat.  I  begin  to 
feel,  a  dreadful  sinkin'  at  my  stummuck." 

She  locked  up  the  house  carefully — she  always  felt  a 
great  responsibility  when  she  had  people's  work  on  hand — 
and  went  to  bed. 

Next  morning  she  woke  up  so  faint  and  dizzy  that  she 
hardly  knew  herself.  She  crawled  out  into  the  kitchen, 
and  sank  down  on  the  floor.  She  could  not  move  another 
step. 

"  Lor  sakes !"  she  moaned,  "  I  reckon  I'm  'bout  clone  to  !" 

The  quilts  lay  near  her  on  the  table  ;  she  stared  up  at 
them  with  feeble  complacency.  "  Ef  I'm  goin'  to  die,  I'm 
glad  I  got  them  quilts  done  right  fust.  Massy,  how  sinkin' 
I  do  feel !  I  wish  I  had  a  cup  of  tea." 

There  she  lay,  and  the  beautiful  spring  morning  wore  on. 
The  sun  shone  in  at  the  window,  and  moved  nearer  and 
nearer,  until  finally  she  lay  in  a  sunbeam,  a  poor,  shrivelled 
little  old  woman,  whose  resolute  spirit  had  nearly  been  her 
death,  in  her  scant  nightgown  and  ruffled  cap,  a  little  shawl 
falling  from  her  shoulders.  She  did  not  feel  ill,  only  abso 
lutely  too  weak  and  helpless  to  move.  Her  mind  was  just 
as  active  as  ever,  and  her  black  eyes  peered  sharply  out  of 
her  pinched  face.  She  kept  making  efforts  to  rise,  but  she 
could  not  stir. 

"Lor  sakes  !"  she  snapped  out  at  length,  "  how  long  hev 
I  got  to  lay  here  ?  I'm  mad  !" 


88  AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

She  saw  some  dust  on  the  black  paint  of  a  chair  which 
stood  in  the  sun,  and  she  eyed  that  distressfully. 

"  Jest  look  at  that  dust  on  the  runs  of  that  cheer !"  she 
muttered.  "  What  if  anybody  come  in  !  I  wonder  if  I  can't 
reach  it !" 

The  chair  was  near  her,  and  she  managed  to  stretch  out 
her  limp  old  hand  and  rub  the  dust  off  the  rounds.  Then 
she  let  it  sink  down,  panting. 

"  I  wonder  ef  I  ain't  goin'  to  die,"  she  gasped.  "  I  won 
der  ef  I'm  prepared.  I  never  took  nothin'  that  shouldn't 
belong  to  me  that  I  knows  on.  Oh,  dear  me  suz,  I  wish 
somebody  would  come !" 

When  her  strained  ears  did  catch  the  sound  of  footsteps 
outside,  a  sudden  resolve  sprang  up  in  her  heart. 

"  I  won't  let  on  to  nobody  how  I've  made  them  quilts 
over,  an'  how  I  hevn't  had  enough  to  eat — I  won't." 

When  the  door  was  tried  she  called  out  feebly,  "  Who  is 
thar?" 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Peters,  her  next-door  neighbor,  came 
back  in  response :  "  It's  me.  What's  the  matter,  Mar- 
thy  ?" 

"  I'm  kinder  used  up ;  don't  know  how  you'll  git  in ;  I 
can't  git  to  the  door  to  unlock  it  to  save  my  life." 

"  Can't  I  get  in  at  the  window  ?" 

"  Mebbe  you  kin." 

Mrs.  Peters  was  a  long-limbed,  spare  woman,  and  she 
got  in  through  the  window  with  considerable  ease,  it  being 
quite  low  from  the  ground. 

She  turned  pale  when  she  saw  Martha  lying  on  the  floor. 
"Why,  Marthy,  what  is  the  matter?  How  long  have  you 
been  laying  there  ?" 

"  Ever  since  I  got  up.     I  was  kinder  dizzy,  an'  hed  a 


AN  HONEST  SOUL.  89 

dreadful  sinkin'  feelin'.  It  ain't  much,  I  reckon.  Ef  I 
could  hev  a  cup  of  tea  it  would  set  me  right  up.  Thar's 
a  spoonful  left  in  the  pantry.  Ef  you  jest  put  a  few  kin- 
dlin's  in  the  stove,  Mis'  Peters,  an'  set  in  the  kettle  an' 
made  me  a  cup,  I  could  git  up,  I  know.  I've  got  to  go  an' 
kerry  them  quilts  hum  to  Mis'  Bliss  an'  Mis'  Bennet." 

"  I  don't  believe  but  what  you've  got  all  tired  out  over 
the  quilts.  You've  been  working  too  hard." 

"  No,  I  'ain't,  Mis'  Peters ;  it's  nothin'  but  play  piecin' 
quilts.  All  I  mind  is  not  havin'  a  front  winder  to  set  to 
while  I'm  doin'  on't." 

Mrs.  Peters  was  a  quiet,  sensible  woman  of  few  words  ; 
she  insisted  upon  carrying  Martha  into  the  bedroom  and 
putting  her  comfortably  to  bed.  It  was  easily  done ;  she 
was  muscular,  and  the  old  woman  a  very  light  weight. 
Then  she  went  into  the  pantry.  She  was  beginning  to  sus 
pect  the  state  of  affairs,  and  her  suspicions  were  strength 
ened  when  she  saw  the  bare  shelves.  She  started  the  fire, 
put  on  the  tea-kettle,  and  then  slipped  across  the  yard  to 
her  own  house  for  further  reinforcements. 

Pretty  soon  Martha  was  drinking  her  cup  of  tea  and  eat 
ing  her  toast  and  a  dropped  egg.  She  had  taken  the  food 
with  some  reluctance,  half  starved  as  she  was.  Finally  she 
gave  in — the  sight  of  it  was  too  much  for  her.  "  Well,  I 
will  borry  it,  Mis'  Peters,"  said  she ;  "  an'  I'll  pay  you  jest 
as  soon  as  I  kin  git  up." 

After  she  had  eaten  she  felt  stronger.  Mrs.  Peters  had 
hard  work  to  keep  her  quiet  until  afternoon ;  then  she  would 
get  up  and  carry  the  quilts  home.  The  two  ladies  were 
profuse  in  praises.  Martha,  proud  and  smiling.  Mrs.  Ben- 
net  noticed  the  pink  roses  at  once.  "  How  pretty  that  cal 
ico  did  work  in,"  she  remarked. 


9o  AN  HONEST  SOUL. 

"Yes,"  assented  Martha,  between  an  inclination  .to  chuc 
kle  and  to  cry. 

"  Ef  I  ain't  thankful  I  did  them  quilts  over,"  thought 
she,  creeping  slowly  homeward,  her  hard-earned  two  dol 
lars  •  knotted  into  a  corner  of  her  handkerchief  for  se 
curity. 

About  sunset  Mrs.  Peters  came  in  again.  "Marthy,"  she 
said,  after  a  while,  "Sam  says  he's  out  of  work  just  now, 
and  he'll  cut  through  a  front  window  for  you.  He's  got 
some  old  sash  and  glass  that's  been  laying  round  in  the 
barn  ever  since  I  can  remember.  It'll  be  a  real  charity 
for  you  to  take  it  off  his  hands,  and  he'll  like  to  do  it. 
Sam's  as  uneasy  as  a  fish  out  of  water  when  he  hasn't  got 
any  work." 

Martha  eyed  her  suspiciously.  "Thanky;  but  I  don't 
want  nothin'  done  that  I  can't  pay  for,"  said  she,  with  a 
stiff  toss  of  her  head. 

"  It  would  be  pay  enough,  just  letting  Sam  do  it,  Marthy; 
but,  if  you  really  feql  set  about  it,  I've  got  some  sheets  that 
need  turning.  You  can  do  them  some  time  this  summer, 
and  that  will  pay  us  for  all  it's  worth." 

The  black  eyes  looked  at  her  sharply.     "  Air  you  sure  ?" 

"Yes  ;  it's  fully  as  much  as  it's  worth,"  said  Mrs.  Peters. 
"  I'm  most  afraid  it's  more.  There's  four  sheets,  and  put 
ting  in  a  window  is  nothing  more  than  putting  fn  a  patch — 
the  old  stuff  ain't  worth  anything." 

When  Martha  fully  realized  that  she  was  going  to  have 
a  front  window,  and  that  her  pride  might  suffer  it  to  be 
given  to  her  and  yet  receive  no  insult,  she  was  as  delighted 
as  a  child. 

"Lor  sakes!"  said  she,  "jest  to  think  that  I  shall  have 
a  front  winder  to  set  to !  I  wish  mother  could  ha'  lived  to 


AN  HONEST  SOUL.  9! 

see  it.  Mebbe  you  kinder  wonder  at  it,  Mis'  Peters — you've 
allers  had  front  winders;  but  you  haven't  any  idea  what 
a  great  thing  it  seems  to  me.  It  kinder  makes  me  feel 
younger.  Thar's  the  Mosely  children  ;  they're  'bout  all 
I've  ever  seen  pass  this  winder,  Mis'  Peters.  Jest  see  that 
green  spot  out  thar ;  it's  been  greener  than  the  rest  of  the 
yard  all  the  spring,  an'  now  thar's  lots  of  dandelions  blowed 
out  on  it,  an'  some  clover.  I  b'lieve  the  sun  shines  more 
on  it,  somehow.  Law  me,  to  think  I'm  going  to  hev  a  front 
winder !" 

"  Sarah  was  in  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  further 
(Sarah  was  her  married  daughter),  "and  she  says  she  wants 
some  braided  rugs  right  away.  She'll  send  the  rags  over 
by  Willie  to-morrow." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Well  I'll  be  glad  to  do  it ;  an'  thar's 
one  thing  'bout  it,  Mis'  Peters — mebbe  you'll  think  it  queer 
for  me  to  say  so,  but  I'm  kinder  thankful  it's  rugs  she  wants, 
I'm  kinder  sick  of  bed-quilts  somehow." 


A    TASTE  OF  HONEY. 

THE  long,  low,  red-painted  cottage  was  raised  above  the 
level  of  the  street,  on  an  embankment  separated  into  two 
terraces.  Steep  stone  steps  led  up  the  terraces.  They 
were  covered  with  green,  slimy  moss,  and  little  ferns  and 
weeds  sprang  out  of  every  crack.  A  walk  of  flat  slate 
stones  led  from  them  to  the  front  door,  which  was  painted 
green,  sagged  on  its  hinges,  and  had  a  brass  knocker. 

The  whole  yard  and  the  double  banks  were  covered  with 
a  tall  waving  crop  of  red-top  and  herds-grass  and  red  and 
white  clover.  It  was  in  the  height  of  haying-time. 

A  grassy  wheel-track  led  round  the  side  of  the  house  to 
a  barn  dashed  with  streaks  of  red  paint. 

Off  to  the  left  stretched  some  waving  pasture-land,  and 
a  garden-patch  marked  by  bean-poles  and  glancing  corn- 
blades,  with  a  long  row  of  beehives  showing  in  the  midst 
of  it. 

A  rusty  open  buggy  and  a  lop-eared  white  horse  stood  in 
the  drive  opposite  the  side  door  of  the  house. 

An  elderly  woman  with  a  green  cotton  umbrella  over  her 
head  sat  placidly  waiting  in  the  buggy.  She  had  on  a  flat- 
tish  black  straw  bonnet  with  purple  strings,  and  wore  a  dull- 
green  silk  shawl  sprinkled  with  little  bright  palm  leaves 
over  her  broad  shoulders. 


A    TASTE   OF  HONEY.  93 

She  had  a  large,  smiling  face,  crinkly  gray  hair,  and  quite 
a  thick  white  beard  cropped  clos£  on  her  double  chin. 

The  side  door  stood  open,  and  a  young  woman  kept 
coming  out,  bringing  pails  and  round  wooden  boxes,  which 
she  stowed  away  in  the  back  of  the  buggy  and  under  the  seat. 
She  was  a  little  round-shouldered,  her  face  with  its  thick, 
dull-colored  complexion  was  like  her  mother's,  just  as 
pleasant  and  smiling,  only  with  a  suggestion  of  shrewd 
sense  about  it  which  the  older  woman's  did  not  have. 

When  the  pails  and  boxes  were  all  in  the  buggy,  she 
locked  the  door,  got  in  herself,  and  drove  carefully  out  of 
the  yard. 

The  road  along  which  they  proceeded  lay  between  wav 
ing  grain  fields.  The  air  was  full  of  the  rattle  of  mowing- 
machines  this  morning ;  nearly  every  field  had  its  broad 
furrows  where  they  had  passed. 

The  old  white  horse  jogged  slowly  along  ;  the  two  women 
sat  behind  him  in  silence,  the  older  one  gazing  about  her 
with  placid  interest,  the  younger  one  apparently  absorbed 
in  her  own  thoughts.  She  was  calculating  how  much  her 
butter  and  eggs  and  berries  would  bring  in  Bolton,  the  large 
market  town  towards  which  they  were  travelling. 

Every  week,  Inez  Morse  and  her  mother  drove  there  to 
sell  the  produce  of  their  little  farm.  Her  father  had  died 
three  years  before ;  ever  since,  the  daughter  had  carried 
on  the  farm,  hiring  very  little  help.  There  was  a  six-hun 
dred-dollar  mortgage  on  it,  which  she  was  trying  to  pay  up. 
It  was  slow  work,  though  they  saved  every  penny  they  could, 
and  denied  themselves  even  the  fruit  of  their  own  land. 

Inez  had  a  mild  joke  about  the  honey  which  her  bees 
made.  She  and  her  mother  scarcely  tasted  it ;  it  all  went 
to  the  Bolton  markets. 

^_    »y 


94  A    TASTE  OF  HONEY. 

"  I  tell  you  what  'tis,  mother,"  Inez  used  to  say,  "  the  day 
the  mortgage  is  paid  off  we'll  have  warm  biscuit  and  honey 
for  supper." 

Whenever  her  mother  looked  wistfully  at  the  delicacies 
which  they  could  not  keep  for  their  own  enjoyment,  Inez 
would  tell  her  to  never  mind — by  and  by  they  would  eat 
their  own  honey.  The  remark  grew  into  a  sort  of  house- 
Jiold  proverb  for  them. 

The  mother  felt  their  privations  much  more  keenly  than 
the  daughter.  She  was  one  of  those  women  for  whom  these 
simple  animal  pleasures  form  a  great  part  of  life.  She  had 
not  much  resource  in  her  mind.  The  payment  of  the  mort 
gage  did  not  afford  her  the  keen  delight  in  anticipation  that 
it  did  Inez  ;  she  was  hardly  capable  of  it,  though  she  would 
be  pleased  enough  when  the  time  came.  Now  she  thought 
more  about  eating  the  honey.  However,  she  had  never 
grumbled  at  any  of  her  daughter's  management.  In  her 
opinion,  Inez  always  did  about  right. 

When  they  reached  Bolton,  Inez  drove  about  the  village 
from  house  to  house,  selling  her  wares  at  the  doors,  while 
her  mother  sat  in  the  buggy  and  held  the  horse.  She  had 
a  good  many  regular  customers :  her  goods  were  always 
excellent,  and  gave  satisfaction,  though  she  had  the  name 
of  being  a  trifle  exacting  in  her  bargains,  and  asking  as 
much  as  she  possibly  could. 

To-day  one  of  her  customers  in  making  change  did  not 
give  her  enough  by  a  cent.  Inez,  when  she  discovered  it, 
drove  back  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  have  the  error  rectified. 

The  woman  looked  amused  and  a  trifle  contemptuous 
when  she  asked  her  for  the  missing  penny.  Inez  saw  it. 
"  You  think  it  is  queer  that  I  came  back  for  one  cent,"  said 
she,  with  slow  dignity,  "but  cents  are  my  dollars." 


A    TASTE   OF  HONEY.  95 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  assented  the  woman,  hastily,  chang 
ing  her  expression. 

Inez,  driving  through  Bolton  streets,  looked  at  the  girls 
of  her  own  age,  in  their  pretty  street  suits,  in  grave  femi 
nine  admiration.  She  herself  had  never  had  anything 
but  the  very  barest  necessaries  in  the  way  of  clothes. 
Lately  a  vain  desire  had  crept  into  her  heart  for  a  bright 
ribbon  bow  to  wear  at  the  throat,  as  some  of  those  girls 
did.  She  never  dreamed  of  gratifying  the  desire,  but  it 
remained.  She  thought  of  it  so  much  that,  before  she 
knew,  she  mentioned  it  to  her  mother  on  their  way  home. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  a  red  ribbon  bow  with  long  ends 
like  those  girls  wore  would  be  pretty  for  me,  wouldn't  it?" 

Her  mother  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  It  did  not 
sound  like  Inez.  "  Real  pretty,  child,"  said  she.  "  I'd  hev 
one  ef  I  was  you  j  you're  young,  an'  you  want  sech  things. 
I  lied  'em  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"  Oh,  no,  mother,"  cried  Inez,  hastily.  "  Of  course  I  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing  really.  I  only  spoke  of  it.  We've 
got  to  wait  till  the  mortgage  is  paid  to  eat  our  honey,  you 
know." 

That  evening,  after  the  mother  and  daughter  had  eaten 
their  supper,  and  were  sitting  in  the  kitchen  in  the  twilight, 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

Inez  answered  it.     Willy  Linfield  stood  there. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Willy?"  said  she. 

"  Pretty  well,  thanky,  Inez." 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  Inez  stood  looking  gravely  at 
the  young  man.  She  wondered  what  he  wanted,  and  why 
he  did  not  tell  his  errand. 

"Nice  evening?"  said  he,  finally. 

"  Beautiful." 


96  A    TASTE  OF  HONEY. 

Then  there  was  another  pause.  The  young  fellow  stood 
on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other,  and  got  red  in  the  face. 

Inez  could  not  imagine  why  he  did  not  tell  her  what  he 
wanted.  At  last  she  grew  desperate. 

"Did  your  mother  want  to  buy  some  eggs,  Willy?"  she 
asked. 

"  No-o,"  he  faltered,  looking  rather  taken  aback.  "  I  don't 
— she  does — leastways  she  didn't  say  anything  about  it." 

"  Was  it  butter,  then  ?" 

"No — I  guess  not.     I  rather  think  she's  got  plenty." 

Inez  stared  at  him  in  growing  amazement — what  did  he 
want? 

He  was  a  fair-complexioned  young  man,  and  he  looked 
as  if  the  blood  were  fairly  bursting  through  his  face. 

"Good-night,  Inez,"  said  he,  finally. 

"  Good-night,  Willy,"  she  responded.    Then  he  walked  off. 

Inez  went  into  the  kitchen,  entirely  mystified.  She  told 
her  mother  about  it.  "  What  do  you  suppose  he  wanted  ?" 
asked  she. 

Mrs.  Morse  was  an  obtuse  woman,  but  Inez's  father  had 
come  courting  her  in  by-gone  days.  She  caught  the  clew 
to  the  mystery  quicker  than  her  daughter. 

"  Why,  I  guess  he  come  to  see  you,  Inez,  most  likely." 

"  Come  to  see  me  !     Why,  what  for  ?" 

"'Why,  'cause  he  wanted  to.  Why  does  any  feller  go  to 
see  a  girl  ?" 

It  was  Inez's  turn  to  color  then.  "I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing  as  that,"  said  she.  "I  don't  believe  it, 
mother." 

"  He  did,  sure's  preachin'." 

"  I  never  thought  of  asking  him  to  come  in.  I  guess  you 
are  mistaken,  mother.  Nobody  ever  came  to  see  me  so" 


A    TASTE   OF  HONEY.  97 

Inez  kept  thinking  about  it  uneasily.  It  was  a  new  un 
easiness  for  her. 

The  next  day  she  met  Willy  Lihfield  in  the  village  store. 
She  stepped  up  to  him  at  once. 

"  Willy,"  said  she,  "  I  didn't  ask  you  to  come  in  last  night, 
and  I  thought,  p'rhaps,  afterwards,  I'd  ought  to.  I  never 
thought  of  your  wanting  to  come  in.  I  supposed  you'd 
come  on  an  errand." 

The  young  fellow  had  looked  stiff  and  offended  when  she 
first  approached  him,  but  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  her 
honest  apology. 

"Well,  I  kinder  thought  of  making  a  little  call  on  you, 
Inez,"  he  owned,  coloring. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  then ;  but  no  young  man  ever  came  to 
see  me  before,  and  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

She  looked  into  his  face  pleasantly.  He  gained  courage. 
"  Say,  Inez,"  said  he,  "  the  bell-ringers  are  going  to  perform 
in  the  hall  to-morrow  night.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  with 
me?" 

"  Yes,  I'd  like  to.     Thank  you,  Willy." 

Inez  was  not  easily  perturbed,  but  she  went  home  now 
in  a  flutter.  Such  a  thing  as  this  had  never  happened  to 
her  before.  Young  men  had  never  shown  much  partiality 
for  her.  Now  she  was  exceedingly  pleased.  She  had  never 
realized  that  she  cared,  because  she  had  not  had  the  ex 
periences  of  other  girls ;  but  now  her  girlish  instincts  awoke. 
She  really  had  a  good  deal  of  her  mother's  simplicity  about 
her,  though  it  was  ^redeemed  by  native  shrewdness. 

Now  she  began  to  revolve  in  her  mind  again  the  project 
of  the  red  ribbon.  She  did  want  it  so  much,  but  she  felt 
as  if  it  was  such  a  dreadful  extravagance.  At  last  she 
decided  to  get  it.  She  actually  looked  pale  and  scared 


98  A    TASTE   OF  HONEY. 

when  she  stood  buying  it  at  the  counter  in  the  little  milli 
nery  shop. 

She  went  home  with  it,  feeling  a  guilty  delight,  and  showed 
it  to  her  mother,  and  told  her  of  Willy  Linfield's  invitation. 
She  had  not  before.  This  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  con 
cert  day. 

"  My!"  said  her  mother,  elated,  "you've  got  a  beau,  Inez, 
as  sure  as  preachin',  an'  the  red  ribbon's  beautiful." 

Inez  could  not,  however,  rid  herself  of  the  guilty  feeling. 
She  gave  her  mother  a  piece  of  honeycomb  for  her  supper. 
"  It  ain't  fair  for  me  to  be  buying  ribbon  out  of  the  mort 
gage  money,  and  mother  have  nothing,"  said  she  to  herself. 
"  So  she  must  have  the  honey,  and  that  makes  two  things 
out." 

But  when  Inez,  with  the  crisp  red  bow  at  her  throat,  fol 
lowed  her  escort  awkwardly  through  the  lighted  hall,  and 
sat  by  his  side  listening  to  the  crystal  notes  of  the  bell- 
ringers,  the  worry  about  the  ribbon  and  the  weight  of  the 
mortgage  seemed  to  slip  for  a  moment  from  her  young, 
bowed  shoulders.  She  thought  of  them,  only  to  look  at 
some  other  girls  with  ribbons,  and  to  be  glad  that  she  had 
one  too.  She  was  making  a  grasp,  for  a  few  minutes,  at 
the  girlhood  she  had  never  had. 

The  concert  was  Wednesday.  Saturday  she  and  her 
mother  drove  again  to  Bolton  to  sell  their  butter  and  eggs. 
When  they  got  home,  Inez  opened  the  parlor,  which  was 
never  used,  and  swept  and  dusted  it.  It  was  a  grand  apart 
ment  to  her  and  her  mother.  It  had  never  been  opened 
since  her  father's  funeral.  When  she  first  unclosed  the  door 
to-day  she  seemed  to  see  the  long  coffin  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  where  it  had  rested  then. 

She  shuddered  a  little.     "Folks  that  have  had  troubles 


A    TASTE  OF  HONEY.  99 

do  see  coffins  afterwards,  even  when  they're  happy,  I  sup 
pose,"  muttered  she  to  herself. 

Then  she  went  to  work.  There  was  a  large  mahogany 
bureau  in  one  corner  of  the  room  ;  some  flag-bottomed  chairs 
stood  stiffly  around  ;  there  was  an  old-fashioned  card-table, 
with  Mrs.  Heman's  poems  and  the  best  lamp  in  a  bead 
lamp-mat  on  it,  between  the  two  front  windows.  A  narrow 
gilt-framed  looking-glass  hung  over  it. 

Mrs.  Morse  heard  Inez  at  work,  and  came  in.  "  What 
air  you  doin'  on,  Inez  ?"  she  asked  in  wonder. 

"  I  just  thought  I'd  slick  up  here  a  little.  Willy  Linfield 
said — he  might — drop  in  awhile  Sunday  night."  Inez  did 
not  look  at  her  mother.  Somehow  she  felt  more  ashamed 
before  her  than  she  would  have  before  a  smarter  woman. 

"  My  sakes,  Inez,  you  don't  say  so !  You  have  got  a  beau 
as  sure  as  preachin'.  Your  father  kept  right  on  reg'lar, 
after  we  once  set  up  of  a  Sunday  night.  You'll  have  to 
put  a  new  wick  in  that  lamp,  Inez." 

"  I'll  see  to  it,  mother,"  replied  Inez,  shortly.  She  was 
delighted  herself,  but  she  felt  angry  with  her  mother  for 
showing  so  much  elation  ;  it  seemed  to  cheapen  her  happi 
ness. 

Sunday,  Inez  went  with  her  mother  to  church  in  the 
morning  and  afternoon.  She  went  to  Sabbath-school  after 
the  morning  service  too.  She  was  in  a  class  of  girls  of  her 
own  age.  She  had  never  felt,  someway,  as  if  she  was  in  the 
least  one  of  their  kind.  She  never  had  the  things  they  had, 
or  did  anything  which  they  were  accustomed  to  do.  To 
day  she  looked  at  them  with  a  feeling  of  kinship.  She  was 
a  girl  too.  Three  or  four  of  them  had  lovers.  Inez  eyed 
them,  and  thought  how  she  had  one  too,  and  he  was  coming 
to-night  as  well  as  theirs. 


I0o  A    TASTE  OF  HONEY. 

She  had  work  to  do  Sundays  as  well  as  week-days. 
There  were  cows  to  milk  and  hens  to  feed.  But  she 
changed  her  dress  after  supper,  and  put  on  the  new  red- 
ribbon  bow.  She  picked  a  little  nosegay  of  cinnamon  roses 
out  in  the  front  yard  (there  were  a  few  of  these  little  dwarf 
roses  half  buried  in  the  tall  grass  there),  and  arranged  them 
in  an  old  wine-glass  on  the  parlor  mantel.  When  she  heard 
Willy's  feet  on  the  slate  walk  and  his  knock  on  the  front 
door,  her  heart  beat  as  it  never  had  before. 

"  There's  your  beau,  Inez !"  cried  her  mother ;  "  he's 
come !" 

Inez  was  terribly  afraid  Willy  would  hear  what  her  mother 
said ;  the  windows  were  all  open.  She  went  trembling  to 
the  door,  and  asked  him  into  the  garnished  parlor. 

Mrs.  Morse  stayed  out  in  the  kitchen.  The  twilight  deep 
ened.  She  could  hear  the  soft  hum  of  voices  in  the  parlor. 
"Inez  is  in  there  courtin',"  said  she.  "  Her  father  an'  me 
used  to  court,  but  it's  all  over.  There's  something  queer 
about  everything." 

Willy  Lmfield  came  many  a  Sunday  night  after  that.  It 
was  said  all  around  that  Willy  Linfield  was  "  going  "  with 
Inez  Morse.  Folks  wondered  why  he  fancied  her.  He 
was  a  pretty,  rather  dandified  young  fellow,  and  Inez  was 
so  plain  in  her  ways.  She  looked  ten  years  older  than  he, 
though  she  was  about  the  same  age. 

One  Monday  afternoon,  she  told  her  mother  that  Willy, 
the  night  before,  had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  The  two 
women  sat  at  the  kitchen  windows,  resting.  They  had  been 
washing,  and  were  just  through.  The  kitchen  floor  was 
freshly  scoured ;  everything  looked  damp  and  clean. 

"You  don't  say  so,  Inez !"  cried  her  mother,  admiringly. 
"What  did  you  tell  him?  Of  course  you'll  have  him  ;  he's 


A  TASTE:  OF  HONEY.  I0i 

a  real  nice  feller;  an'  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  get  any 
body  else." 

"  I  told  him  I'd  have  him  if  he'd  wait  three  years  for  me 
to  pay  off  the  mortgage,"  replied  Inez,  quietly. 

"  Did  he  say  he  would  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  It's  a  long  time  for  a  feller  to  wait,"  said  her  mother, 
shaking  her  head  dubiously.  "  I'm  afeard  you'll  lose  him, 
Inez." 

.  "Then  I'll  lose  him,"  said  Inez.  "I'm  going  to  pay  off 
that  mortgage  before  I  marry  any  man.  Mother,  look 
here,"  she  went  on,  with  a  passion  which  was  totally  foreign 
to  her,  and  showed  how  deeply  she  felt  about  the  matter. 
"  You  know  a  little  how  I  feel  about  that  mortgage.  It 
ain't  like  any  common  mortgage.  You  know  how  father 
felt  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Inez,"  said  her  mother,  with  a  sob. 

"  Many's  the  time,"  Inez  went  on,  "  that  father  has  talked 
about  it  to  me  over  in  the  field  there.  He'd  been  trying  all 
his  life  to  get  this  place  clear ;  he'd  worked  like  a  dog ;  we 
all  worked  and  went  without.  But  to  save  his  life  he 
couldn't  pay  it  up  within  six  hundred  dollars.  When  the 
doctor  told  him  he  couldn't  live  many  months  longer,  he 
fretted  and  fretted  over  it  to  me.  I  guess  he  always  talked 
more  about  his  troubles  to  me,  mother,  than  he  did  to  you." 

"  I  guess  he  did,  Inez." 

"Finally  I  told  him  one  day — it  was  when  he  was 
able  to  be  about,  just  before  he  gave  up ;  I  was  out  in  the 
garden  picking  peas,  and  he  was  there  with  his  cane. 
'Inez,'  says  he,  'I've  got  to  die  an'  leave  that  mortgage  un 
paid,  an'  I've  been  workin'  ever  since  I  was  a  young  man 
to  do  it.'  'Father,'  says  I,  'don't  you  worry,  /'//pay  up 


102  ',  : :/ :  \ :  • W«    A         OF'  HONEY. 

that  mortgage.'  'You  can't  Inez,'  says  he.  l Yes,  I  will,' 
says  I ;  'I  promise  you,  father.'  It  seemed  to  cheer  him 
up.  He  didn't  fret  so  much  about  it  to  me  afterwards,  but 
he  kept  asking  me  if  I  thought  I  really  could.  I  always 
said, '  Yes.'' 

"  Now,  mother,  if  I  marry  Willy  now,  nobody  knows 
what's  going  to  be  to  hinder  my  keeping  my  promise  to 
father.  Willy  ain't  got  anything  laid  up,  and  he  ain't  very 
strong.  Besides,  he's  got  his  mother  and  sister  to  do  for. 
Hattie's  just  beginning  to  help  herself  a  little,  but  she  can't 
do  much  for  her  mother  yet.  Mrs.  Linfield  ain't  able  to 
work,  and  Willy's  got  to  look  out  for  her.  Then  I've  got 
you.  And  there  might  be  more  still  to  do  for  in  the  course 
of  two  or  three  years ;  nobody  knows.  If  I  marry  Willy 
now,  I  shall  never  pay  off  that  mortgage,  that  I  promised 
poor  father  I  would,  and  I  ain't  going  to  do  it.  It'll  take 
just  three  years  to  pay  it  every  cent;  and  then  I'll  marry 
him,  if  he's  willing  to  wait.  If  the  mortgage  was  just  for 
me  I  wouldn't  care,  though  I  don't  think  it  would  be  very 
wise,  anyway.  But  it's  for  father." 

Mrs.  Morse  was  crying.     "  I  know  you're  jest  right  about 

e  mortgage,  Inez,"  she  sobbed ;  "  but  you'll  lose  your 
beau  as  sure  as  preachin'." 

Nevertheless,  it  seemed  for  a  long  time  as  if  she  would 
not.  Willy  kept  faithful.  He  was  a  good  sort  of  young 
fellow,  and  very  fond  of  Inez,  though  he  hardly  entered  into 
her  feelings  about  the  mortgage.  There  was  at  times  a  per 
fect  agony  of  pity  in  her  heart  over  her  father.  It  made  no 
difference  to  her  that  all  his  earthly  troubles  were  over  for 
him  now.  When  she  thought  over  how  he  had  toiled  and 
worried  and  denied  himself  for  the  sake  of  owning  their  lit 
tle  farm  clear,  and  then  had  to  die  without  seeing  it  accom- 


A    TASTE  OF  HONEY.  IO3 

plished,  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  bear  it.  The  pitiful 
spectacle  of  her  poor,  dull  father  working  all  his  life  for 
such  a  small  aim  in  such  small  ways,  in  vain,  haunted  her. 

During  the  next  three  years  she  strained  every  nerve. 
She  denied  herself  even  more  than  she  had  formerly.  Some 
times  she  used  to  think  her  clothes  were  hardly  fit  for  her 
to  appear  in  beside  Willy,  he  always  looked  so  nice.  But 
she  thought  he  knew  why  she  dressed  so  poorly,  and  would 
not  mind.  "  It  brings  the  time  when  we  can  eat  our  honey 
nearer,"  she  said. 

Willy  was  faithful  for  a  long  time  ;  but,  the  last  six  months 
of  the  third  year,  he  began  to  drop  off  a  little.  Once  in  a 
while  he  would  miss  a  Sunday  night.  Inez  fretted  over  it 
a  little ;  but  she  did  not  really  think  of  doubting  him,  he 
had  been  constant  to  her  so  long.  Besides,  there  was  only 
one  more  payment  to  be  made  on  the  mortgage,  and  she 
was  so  jubilant  over  this  that  she  was  hopeful  about  every 
thing  else. 

Still,  it  was  not  with  an  altogether  light  heart  that  she 
went  to  the  lawyer's  office  one  afternoon  and  made  the  last 
payment.  She  was  not  so  happy  as  she  had  anticipated. 
Willy  had  not  been  near  her  for  three  weeks  now.  She  had 
not  seen  him  even  in  church. 

Still,  she  went  straight  to  his  house  from  the  lawyer's 
office ;  that  had  been  the  old  laughing  bargain  between 
them.  She  was  to  go  and  tell  him  the  good  news  ;  then  he 
was  to  go  home  with  her,  and  help  eat  the  festive  supper  of 
warm  biscuits  and  honey. 

She  walked  right  in  at  the  side  door,  and  entered  the  sit 
ting-room.  She  was  familiar  with  the  place.  In  the  sitting- 
room  sat  Willy's  mother  and  sister.  They  both  started  when 
they  saw  her. 


I04  A    TASTE   OF  HONEY. 

"Oh,  mother,  here  she  is!"  cried  Hattie,  without  speak 
ing  to  Inez. 

Inez's  heart  sank,  but  she  tried  to  speak  naturally. 

"Where's  Willy?"  asked  she.  "He's  home  from  the 
shop,  ain't  he?  I've  made  the  last  payment  on  the  mort 
gage,  and  I've  come  to  tell  him." 

The  mother  and  daughter  made  no  reply,  but  gazed  at 
each  other  in  silent  distress. 

"  Oh,  Inez  !"  cried  Hattie,  at  length,  as  if  she  had  nothing 
else  to  say.  "  Come  into  the  parlor  a  minute  with  me, 
Inez,"  she  added,  after  a  little. 

Inez  followed  her  trembling. 

Hattie  shut  the  door,  and  threw  her  arms  around  Inez. 
"  Oh,  Inez  !"  she  cried  again,  and  began  weeping ;  "  I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  you.  Willy  has  treated  you  awful  mean. 
We've  all  talked  to  him,  but  it  didn't  do.  any  good.  Oh, 
Inez,  I  can't  tell  you !  He's — gone  over  to  West  Dorset 
this  afternoon — to  get  married  !  Oh,  Inez  ?" 

"  Who  is  he  going  to  marry  ?" 

"  Her  name's  Tower — Minnie  Tower.  Oh,  Inez,  we're 
so  awful  sorry !  He  hasn't  known  her  long.  We  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Inez,  quietly.  "Don't  take  on  so, 
Hattie.  Perhaps  it's  all  for  the  best." 

"  Why,  don't  you  care,  Inez  ?" 

There  was  a  pitiful  calm  on  Inez's  dull  face.  "  There's 
no  use  fretting  over  what  can't  be  helped,"  said  she.  "  I 
don't  think  Willy  has  acted  bad.  I  made  him  wait  a  long 
time." 

"  That  was  the  trouble,  Inez." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it.     I  should  do  it  over  again." 

Inez  took  it  so  calmly  that  the  other  girl  brightened.    She 


A    TASTE   OF  HONEY.  105 

had  felt  frightened  and  distressed  over  this,  but  she  had  not 
a  very  deep  nature. 

"  Inez,"  said  she,  hesitatingly,  when  she  made  a  motion  to 
go  ;  "they've  got  a  room  fixed  up-stairs,  you  know;  would 
you  like  to  see  it  ?  It  looks  real  pretty." 

Inez  shuddered.  This  fine  stab  served  to  pierce  the 
deepest,  though  she  knew  the  girl  meant  all  right. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Hattie,  I  won't  stop." 

Inez  was  thankful  when  she  got  out  in  the  air.  She  felt 
a  little  faint.  She  had  to  walk  a  mile  before  she  reached 
home.  Once  she  stopped  and  rested,  sitting  on  a  stone  be 
side  the  road.  She  looked  wearily  around  at  the  familiar 
landscape. 

"The  mortgage  is  paid,"  said  she,  "but  I'll  never  eat  my 
honey." 

Her  mother  was  watching  at  the  kitchen  window  for  her 
when  she  entered  the  yard. 

"  Is  it  paid,  Inez  ?"  asked  she,  eagerly,  when  the  door 
opened. 

"  Every  cent,  mother,"  replied  the  daughter,  kissing  her — 
something  she  seldom  did  ;  she  was  not  given  to  caresses. 

"  Where's  your  beau  ?"  was  the  next  question.  "  I 
thought  you  was  going  to  bring  him  home." 

"  He  ain't  coming,  mother.  He's  gone  over  to  West 
Dorset  to  get  married." 

"  Inez  Morse,  you  don't  mean  to  say  so  !  You  don't 
mean  you've  really  lost  your  beau  ?  Wa'al,  I  told  you  you 
would." 

Mrs.  Morse  sat  down  and  began  to  cry. 

Inez  had  taken  her  things  off,  and  now  she  was  getting 
out  the  moulding-board  and  some  flour. 

"What  air  you  doin'  on,  Inez?" 


I06  A    TASTE   OF  HONEY. 

"I'm  making  the  warm  biscuit  for  supper,  mother,  to  eat 
with  the  honey." 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  make  warm  biscuit  when  you've  lost 
your  beau  ?" 

"I  don't  see  why  that  need  to  cheat  us  out  of  our  supper 
we've  talked  about  all  these  years." 

"  I  do  cleclar',  I  don't  believe  you  mind  it  a  bit,"  said  the 
poor,  simple  mother,  her  sorrow  for  her  daughter  lighting 
up  a  little. 

11 1  don't  care  so  much  but  what  I've  got  enough  comfort 
left  to  live  on,  mother." 

"  Wa'al,  I'm  glad  you  kin  look  at  it  so,  Inez  ;  but  you  air 
a  queer  girl." 

The  biscuit  were  as  light  as  puffs.  Inez's  face  was  as 
cheerful  as  usual  when  she  and  her  mother  sat  down  at  the 
little  table,  with  the  biscuit  and  golden  honey-comb  in  a 
clear  glass  dish  between  them.  The  mother  looked  placid 
ly  happy.  She  was  delighted  that  Inez  could  "  take  it  so." 

But  when  she  saw  her  help  herself  to  the  biscuit  and 
honey,  she  said  again  ;  "  You  air  a  queer  girl,  Inez.  I  know 
the  mortgage  is  paid,  an'  I  only  wish  your  poor  father  knew, 
an'  here  we  sit  eatin'  the  warm  biscuit  and  honey.  But  I 
should  think  losin'  your  beau  would  take  all  the  sweetness 
out  of  the  honey." 

The  pleasant  patience  in  Inez's  face  was  more  pathetic 
than  tears.  "  I  guess  there's  a  good  many  folks  find  it  the 
same  way  with  their  honey  in  this  world,"  said  she.  "To 
morrow,  if  it's  pleasant,  we'll  drive  to  Bolton,  and  get  you  a 
new  dress,  mother." 


BRAKES  AND    WHITE   VFLETS. 

ONE  afternoon  Marm  Lawson  had  company  to  tea. 
There  were  three  women  near  her  own  age — she  was  sev 
enty.  Her  withered,  aged  figure  sat  up  pert  and  erect  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  pouring  the  tea  from  the  shiny  britan- 
nia  teapot  into  the  best  pink  china  cups.  She  never  leaned 
back  in  a  chair  :  there  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  springy  stiff 
ness  about  her  spine  which  forbade  it.  Her  black  cash 
mere  gown  fitted  her  long,  shrunken  form  as  tightly  and 
trimly  as  a  girl's ;  she  had  on  her  best  cap,  made  of  very 
pretty  old  figured  lace,  with  bows  of  lavender  satin  ribbon. 
She  wore  her  iron-gray  hair  in  two  little  thin  dancing  curls, 
one  on  each  side  of  her  narrow,  sallow  face,  just  forward  of 
her  cap. 

In  some  other  positions  she  would  have  been  called  a 
stately  old  lady ;  she  could  be  now  with  perfect  truth.  Her 
old  character  had  in  itself  a  true  New  World  stateliness  and 
aristocratic  feeling  wholly  independent  of  birth  or  riches 
or  education. 

Marm  Lawson  was  not  a  duchess  ;  but  she  was  Marm 
Lawson.  The  "  Marm  "  itself  was  a  title. 

In  a  more  ambitious  and  cultured  town  than  this  it  would 
have  been  Madam;  but  the  Marm  proved  just  as  well  her  sim 
ple  neighbors'  recognition  of  her  latent  dignity  of  character. 

Her  three  guests  sat,  each  at  one  of  the  three  remaining 


Io8  BRAKES  AND    WHITE   VPLETS. 

sides  of  the  square  table.  Levina  sat  meekly,  half  trans 
fixed,  apparently,  at  a  corner. 

She  was  a  slender  young  girl,  Mann  Lawson's  grand 
daughter,  her  son  Charles's  daughter.  She  had  lived  with 
her  grandmother  ever  since  the  death  of  her  mother,  some 
ten  years  since.  Her  fair,  colorless  hair  was  combed  smooth 
ly  straight  back  from  her  pale,  high  forehead ;  her  serious 
blue  eyes  looked  solemnly  out  from  beneath  it.  She  ate 
her  warm  biscuit  and  damson  sauce  decorously,  never 
speaking  a  word  in  the  presence  of  her  elders  :  she  had 
been  taught  old-fashioned  manners,  and  they  clung  to  her, 
though  she  was  important  fifteen. 

Conversation  did  not  flow  very  glibly  among  the  guests, 
though  they  were  ordinarily  garrulous  enough  old  souls. 
When  they  spoke,  it  was  precisely,  and  not  like  themselves. 
Every  nerve  in  them  was  braced  up  to  meet  the  occasion 
with  propriety.  This  state  afternoon,  Marm  Lawson's  china 
tea-cups,  and  company  damson  sauce  and  pound-cakes, 
coming  right  in  the  midst  of  their  common  everydays, 
were  embarrassing  and  awe-inspiring.  They  were  like 
children  ;  they  regarded  Marm  Lawson,  as  children  will  a 
suddenly  elevated  playmate,  with  a  feeling  of  strangeness 
and  respect.  The  one  who  felt  this  the  least  was  a  pretty, 
silly  old  woman,  with  a  front  piece  of  reddish-brown  hair. 
She  crimped  it  every  night.  Her  cheeks  were  as  fair  and 
pink  as  a  young  girl's,  her  china-blue  eyes  as  bright. 

She  ate  her  supper  with  a  relish,  and  now  and.  then  eyed 
Marm  Lawson  with  a  pleased  consciousness  of  her  own 
pinky  cheeks.  "  How  awful  yaller  she  is  !"  she  thought. 
But  there  was  never  any  evidence  of  the  thought  in  her 
placid  blue  eyes,  nor  about  her  tiny  mouth,  into  which  she 
was  stuffing  great  pieces  of  cake  like  a  greedy  baby. 


BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VPLETS.  109 

The  one  next  her,  who  looked  younger  than  she  was, 
from  being  fleshy,  and  so  having  no  deep  wrinkles,  was  a 
widow,  who  lived  with  her  married  daughter ;  the  fair  old 
woman  was  a  widow  too,  and  so  was  Marm  Lawson ;  but 
the  fourth  had  an  old  husband  living.  He  was  a  deacon 
of  the  orthodox  church.  He  had  been  asked  to  tea,  but 
had  been  too  busy  planting  to  come.  "I'm  dretful  sorry 
the  deacon  couldn't  come,"  Marm  Lawson  had  said,  when 
she  was  seating  her  guests  at  the  table.  The  pink  old  lady 
mentally  resolved  that  she  wouldn't  have  sat  at  a  corner  if 
he  had  ;  she  was  jealous,  and  always  on  the  lookout  for 
slights,  and.  careful  of  her  own  interests.  She  had  fixed  on 
the  largest  piece  of  cake  in  the  plate  before  it  was  passed ; 
then  she  took  it,  defiantly. 

After  tea,  when  they  all  sat  in  the  north  room  with  their 
knitting,  they  felt  more  at  ease,  and  their  tongues  moved 
faster.  Marm  Lawson  had  opened  the  north  room  to-day. 
The  south,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  entry,  was  her 
usual  sitting-room.  The  north  one  was  shut  up  except  on 
occasions. 

The  china  closet,  where  she  kept  her  best  china,  was  in 
there,  the  best  hair-cloth  rocking-chairs,  and  Mrs.  Hemans 
and  Mrs.  Sigourney  in  red  and  gold  on  the  mahogany  work- 
table.  Everything — the  hair-cloth  furniture,  the  books,  the 
beaded  lamp-mat—had  a  peculiar  north-room  smell,  not 
disagreeable,  but  characteristic,  as  much  the  room's  own 
odor  as  a  flower's.  It  clung  to  the  things  when  long  re 
moved  from  it,  too.  Levina,  years  afterwards,  and  far  away, 
putting  her  face  down  to  the  red-and-gold  Hemans  book, 
could  smell  the  north  room. 

She  overheard  the  old  ladies  speaking  her  name  several 
times  as  she  went  about  clearing  away  the  tea-things,  which 


IIO  BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VPLETS. 

was  her  work ;  but  she  paid  no  heed.  She  had  no  morbid 
interest  in  herself,  and  therefore  no  unlawful  curiosity.  She 
was  a  quietly  strong-minded,  conscientious  girl ;  but  she  was 
too  delicate.  That  was  what  her  elders  were  talking  about. 

"Seems  to  me  Leviny's  lookin'  kinder  pindlin',  ain't 
she  ?"  said  the  fleshy  old  lady,  who  was  Mrs.  Potter ;  she 
had  buried  a  good  many  children  of  her  own,  years  ago. 
There  had  been  two  young  daughters  about  Levina's  age. 

"  I  thought  so  too,"  agreed  the  deacon's  wife.  "  I 
couldn't  keep  my  eyes  off  her  when  we  was  havin'  tea.  She 
made  me  think  a  sight  of  your  Jenny,  Mis'  Potter." 

Marm  Lawson  sat  up  straighter  and  knitted  firmly.  "  I 
don't  see  any  reason  why  Leviny  ain't  well.  She  allers 
looks  pale  ;  it's  her  nateral  color." 

"  It  ain't  so  much  the  pale/'  said  Mrs.  Potter,  "but  thar's 
somethin'  else,  a  kind  of  a  look  around  the  nose  an'  the 
mouth  that  I've  seen  a  good  many  times,"  and  she  sighed. 
'•'•Don't  you  think  it's  jest  a  leetle  damp  here,  Miss  Lawson ? 
Do  you  s'pose  it  altogether  suits  Leviny  ?" 

Marm  Lawson's  knitting-needles  clicked  furiously,  and 
the  lavender  bows  on  her  cap  trembled.  "  No,  I  don't 
think  this  house  is  any  damper  than  any  other  house.  I've 
heard  'bout  'nough  'bout  it.  I've  lived  here  all  my  life,  an' 
been  well  'nough.  I  don't  see  why  Leviny  can't." 

"'Now,  Mis'  Lawson,"  said  the  fair  old  lady,  "how  kin 
you  say  it  ain't  damp  ?  Jest  look  at  all  them  brakes  under 
the  winders  ;  they  allers  grow  whar  it's  damp,  an'  the  whole 
medder  out  this  side  is  too  wet  to  walk  in,  an'  jest  kivered 
with  white  vi'lets." 

"Thar's  a  good  many  other  houses  in  town  got  brakes 
under  the  winders,  an'  medders  of  white  vi'lets  pretty  near 


BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VPLETS.  m 

"Leviny's  mother  died  here,  you  know,"  added  the  fair 
old  lady. 

"  She'd  'a  died  anywhar ;  consumption  was  in  the  Crane 
family.  Leviny's  well  'nough  ;  guess  I'd  know  if  she  wasn't, 
I've  got  'bout  as  good  opportunities  of  jedgin'  as  anybody." 

The  others  subsided  under  this  thrust.  Poor  Marm  Law- 
son  was  so  excited  as  to  be  near  forgetting  her  hospitality. 
But  the  subject  was  revived  among  themselves  on  their 
way  home. 

"  Marm  Lawson  was  dretful  riled  'cause  I  said  what  I 
did,"  said  the  fair  old  lady ;  "  but  I  don't  keer.  I  b'lieve 
that  gal's  goin'  jest  like  her  mother." 

"  I  wish  her  father'd  take  her  away,"  said  Mrs.  Potter, 
"somewhar  whar  it's  drier." 

"  Talk  about  that  house  not  bein'  damp !  Jest  look  at 
that  great  streak  of  mildew  on  the  front  of  it  \  they  can't 
keep  it  off.  It  comes  right  through  the  paint  every  time." 

"  She  won't  ever  own  it." 

But  poor  Marm  Lawson  had  to  succumb  to  it,  if  she 
would  not  own  it.  Six  months  later  she  was  living  alone 
in  the  beloved  old  house,  which  sat  closely  down  on  the 
ground,  with  no  foundation  stones  showing,  and  had,  in 
deed,  its  great  blotch  of  mildew  ever  present  on  its  white- 
painted  front.  The  grass  in  the  little  front  yard  was  always 
rank  and  short,  and  a  lighter  green  than  elsewhere  ;  a  thick 
row  of  trees  stood  just  outside  it,  along  the  sidewalk. 

"  Of  course  it's  damp,  mother,"  Charles  Lawson  had 
said,  looking  in  dismay  at  his  fading  daughter,  whom  he 
had  come  to  see  from  his  home  in  Lincoln,  a  town  fifty 
miles  distant ;  and  he  took  her  away  with  him  on  the  next 
train  in  spite  of  all  his  mother's  objections.  He  had  a 
good  deal  of  her  own  decision  of  character.  He  had  a 


II2  BRAKES  AND   WHITE    VI* LETS. 

second  wife  now,  a  good  woman,  so  Levin  a  would  be  well 
cared  for,  and  have  a  home.  He  urged  his  mother  very 
strongly  to  sell  the  house  and  go  to  live  with  him ;  but  she 
scorned  the  idea. 

Give  up  her  home  !  she  said;  she'd  like  to  see  herself: 
she  knew  all  about  old  women  livin'  with  their  sons'  wives. 
No :  she'd  lived  fifty  year  in  the  old  place,  if  it  was  damp, 
an'  she  guessed  she  could  stan'  it  a  while  longer.  Thar 
wa'n't  no  need  of  Leviny's  goin'. 

She  kept  up  a  stern,  indignant  front  till  the  coach  con 
taining  Levina  and  her  father  had  rumbled  out  of  sight ; 
then  she  went  back  into  the  house,  into  her  south  room, 
and  sat  down  and  cried.  "  Charles  might  hev  let  me  keep 
her  ;  she  wa'n't  sick  much  ;  she'd  been  pickin'  up  an'  eatin' 
a  good  deal  more  lately  ;  she'd  get  well  here  jest  as  well  as 
anywhar.  Charles  might  hev  let  me  keep  her.  He's  got 
a  wife  now.  I'll  warrant  she  don't  understand  nothin  'bout 
nursin'.  Poor  lonesome  old  woman  I  be  !  Oh  dear !  oh 
dear!" 

The  poor  old  woman  did  have  a  hard,  solitary  life  through 
the  next  winter.  Charles  was  a  good  son,  and  it  troubled 
him  ;  he  wrote  to  her  again  and  again,  begging  her  to  come 
to  him.  His  wife  wrote,  and  Levina,  who  was  mending, 
wrote  little,  loving,  precise  letters.  But  the  old  lady  stayed 
resolutely  where  she  was.  She  wouldn't  leave  her  home — 
no,  not  for  a  short  visit.  She  knew  all  about  that ;  the 
house  would  be  sold  afore  she  knew  it,  if  she  left  it,  if  'twa'nt 
fur  more'n  a  week,  an'  then  she  wouldn't  hev  any  home. 

Early  in  spring,  however,  her  resolution  seemed  to  give 
way.  The  longing  to  see  her  granddaughter  grew  stronger 
and  stronger.  Just  before  the  ferns  and  white  violets  came 
up  around  the  house  she  wrote  to  her  son,  and  told  him 


BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VI'LETS.  ^3 

she  would  come  an'  stay  just  one  week,  an'  not  any  more; 
they  needn't  tease  her  to. 

The  morning  she  started,  Mrs.  Potter  and  her  daughter 
came  in  to  help  her  off.  They  lived  opposite,  in  a  house 
a  little  back  from  the  road,  on  a  hill.  She  had  to  ride  ten 
miles  in  a  stage-coach  to  a  little  isolated  station  to  take  the 
cars.  When  she  got  into  the  coach  there  was  a  queer  ex 
pression  on  her  face.  Mrs.  Potter's  daughter,  Mrs.  Cart- 
wright,  noticed  it,  and  spoke  about  it  to  her  mother. 

"  Marm  Lawson  looked  sort  of  funny  to  me  when  she 
went  off,"  she  told  her  mother. 

"She  felt  awfully  'bout  leavin'  the  place." 

"  Twa'n't  that.  She  had  a  look  as  if  she  was  makin'  up 
her  mind  to  something." 

The  poor  old  woman  was  making  up  her  mind  all  that  long 
ten-mile  drive,  between  the  budding  willows  and  maples,  to 
Cold  Brook.  She  was  torn  betwixt  two  loves  and  two  long 
ings  :  one  for  her  dear  Levina,  and  one  for  her  dear  home,  with 
its  setting  of  green  brakes  and  white  violets.  She  was  the 
only  passenger.  Sitting  up  straight  in  the  lumbering  coach, 
clutching  her  valise  and  her  bandbox,  she  argued  with  her 
self:  "Here's  Leviny,  poor  child,  expectin'  to  see  grand 
ma — wonder  if  she's  growed  any?  An'  here's  the  old  place 
— seems  as  ef  'twas  tearin'  of  me  in  two  to  leave  it.  Oh 
dear !  I  know  I  sha'n't  sleep  a  wink  at  Charles's,  nor  eat 
a  morsel ;  I  never  could  eat  strange  cookin.'  But,  my 
sakes,  seems  to  me  I  don't  keen  ef  I  kin  only  see  Leviny, 
dear  child.  S'pose  the  house  should  ketch  fire  while  I  was 
gone  ?  Oh  dear  !" 

Her  mind  was  not  made  up  when  she  arrived  at  Cold 
Brook,  where  she  was  to  take  the  cars.  The  train  was  late. 
She  sat  down  in  the  little  station,  and  watched  the  coach 


II4  BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VIOLETS. 

roll  off.  Should  she  go,  or  stay  ?  The  station  was  noth 
ing  more  than  a  long  bench  with  a  roof  over  it  as  a 
shelter  from  the  rain.  One  side  was  entirely  open.  She 
was  all  alone  there.  In  two  or  three  minutes  she  heard 
the  far-off  whistle  of  the  train.  Should  she  go  or  stay? 
Oh,  Levina !  Oh,  the  old  house  !  Even  while  she  was 
asking  herself  she  was  dragging  her  little  trunk  around  to 
the  rear  of  the  station.  Then  she  carried  her  valise  and 
bandbox  round,  and  crouched  down  there  with  them,  a 
wretched,  determined,  guilty  little  old  lady.  She  had  de 
cided :  the  house  had  triumphed  over  Levina.  The  train 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  the  engine-bell  ringing.  It  gave  a 
half-halt  at  the  little  station ;  then,  as  there  were  no  pas 
sengers  in  sight,  went  on.  Days  passed  sometimes  without 
any  passengers  at  this  little  out-of-the-way  place. 

When  the  train  had  gone,  the  old  lady  dragged  her  bag 
gage  round  to  the  front  of  the  station  again,  and  sat  down. 
She  hoped  vaguely  that  a  coach  would  come  before  long 
and  take  her  home  ;  but  she  knew  nothing  about  it.  There 
she  sat,  hour  after  hour;  freight  trains  thundered  past,  and 
one  or  two  passenger  trains  ;  none  of  them  stopped.  She 
could  see  people  looking  curiously  at  her  sitting  there, 
and  then  they  were  gone.  She  had  some  gingerbread  and 
cheese  in  her  valise,  and  she  took  them  out  and  ate  them. 
It  grew  dusky,  and  no  coach  had  come  ;  she  began  to  real 
ize  that  none  would  come  that  night.  Marm  Lawson  had 
a  great  deal  of  spirit.  When  she  understood  that  she  would 
either  have  to  remain  where  she  was  through  the  night,  or 
strike  off  into  the  woods  until  she  came  to  the  road  and  a 
house,  she  faced  the  situation  bravely.  She  did  not  really 
think  of  the  latter  alternative  for  a  minute.  She  would  not 
have  left  her  trunk  unguarded  there  for  anything.  She  was 


BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VPLETS.  1I5 

always  accustomed  to  retire  early.  She  opened  her  valise, 
took  out  her  Bible,  and  read  a  chapter  j  then  she  went  down 
on  her  knees  beside  the  rough  bench  and  said  her  prayers. 
Then  she  made  up  a  bed  on  the  bench,  with  her  shawl  and 
cloak,  and  a  folded  dress  for  a  pillow,  and  lay  quietly  down. 
She  looked  across  and  saw  the  railroad  track  in  the  dusk, 
and  the  fringe  of  low  woods  on  the  other  side. 

"  It's  a  queer  place  to  go  to  sleep  in,"  said  she  ;  "but  I 
s'pose  His  overrulin'  providence  is  jest  as  strong  here  as 
anywhar.  I  only  hope  I  'ain't  committed  a  sin  agin  Him 
in  not  goin'  to  see  Leviny." 

The  soft  spring  twilight"  deepened ;  when  the  stars  had 
come  out  faintly,  the  poor,  strong  old  soul,  wearied  out,  had 
fallen  asleep. 

The  stage-driver  in  the  morning  found  her  seated  there, 
erect  and  pert  as  ever,  waiting  for  him.  He  eyed  her  curi 
ously  ;  she  was  a  stranger  to  him  ;  but  he  had  not  a  sus 
picion  that  she  had  stayed  in  the  station  all  night.  He 
thought  she  had  been  brought  early  that  morning  from  one 
of  the  neighboring  farms  to  take  the  stage. 

Marm  Lawson  got  home  about  noon.  She  went  into  her 
own  house  defiantly.  She  almost  felt  as  if  she  had  no  right 
there.  The  neighbors,  who  saw  her  come,  came  running 
in,  wild  with  curiosity.  But  they  got  very  little  satisfaction 
out  of  her.  All  she  would  say  was  that  she  had  made  up. 
her  mind  not  to  go  any  farther  when  she  had  got  to  Cold 
Brook,  and  she  s'posed  she  had  a  perfect  right  to.  She 
could  not  help  owning  that  she  had  stayed  all  night  there — 
they  knew  when  the  stages  ran.  She  met  their  consterna 
tion  on  this  point  with  the  same  severe  self-possession, 
however.  It  was  a  strong  proof  of  Mann  Lawson's  obsti 
nate  force  of  character  that  she  went  erectly  through  this 


!l6  BRAKES  AND  WHITE    VIOLETS. 

without  the  slightest  abatement  of  her  dignity  or  self-con 
fidence. 

She  did  not  falter  at  all  even  when  her  son  Charles  came 
a  few  days  later.  He  was  more  severe  with  her  for  her 
folly  and  imprudence  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  If 
she  cared  more  for  that  damp,  musty  old  place  than  she  did 
for  Levina  or  himself,  or  her  own  life,  she  had  better  say  so, 
and  have  done  with  it. 

She  eyed  him  with  stern  indignation.  "  Charles,"  said 
she,  "your  mother  has  got  all  her  faculties  yet,  an'  she 
knows  what's  best  for  her  a  leetle  better'n  you  kin  tell  her. 
'Tain't  for  you  to  dictate,  yet  a  while." 

Still,  in  spite  of  her  defiance,  she  was  wretched  after  her 
son  had  gone  away.  Even  the  meadow  of  white  violets 
and  the  brakes  could  not  console  her.  She  hungered  piti 
fully  after  Levina.  Still,  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  leave  home  to  go  to  her.  She  complained  bitterly  be 
cause  they  would  not  let  her  granddaughter  come  back ; 
she  "knowed"  it  wouldn't  hurt  her,  she  said.  It  wa'n't 
any  damper  here  than  anywhere  else ;  she  hadn't  seen  a 
speck  of  mould  on  her  bread  all  summer.  Without  any 
doubt,  her  constant  struggle  with  herself  wore  on  her.  Being 
away  from  what  she  loved  Was  the  very  bitterness  of  death 
to  this  strong-affectioned  old  woman  ;  and  when  the  being 
away  was  voluntary,  and  something  for  which  she  had  to 
blame  herself,  it  was  bitterness  on  bitterness. 

Towards  the  last  of  August  she  was  taken  ill  —  quite 
alarmingly  so — and  they  sent  for  her  son.  He  came,  and 
brought  Levina,  who  would  not  be  left  behind. 

When  the  coach  stopped,  Marm  Lawson,  who  was  per 
fectly  conscious  all  the  while,  heard  it.  Then  she  heard 
Levina's  voice.  "Who's  that?"  she  said,  with  a  startled 


BRAKES  AND    WHITE    VIOLETS. 


117 


look,  to  Mrs.  Cartwright,  who  was  taking  care  of  her. 
"  'Tain't  Leviny  ?" 

In  another  minute  Levina  was  in  the  room. 

"  Oh,  dear  grandma !" 

Her  grandmother  gave  one  hungry  look  at  her;  then  she 
turned  her  face  on  the  pillow.  "  Now,  Levina  Lawson,  you 
ain't  goin'  to  stay  in  this  damp  house  one  minute,  an'  git  to 
coughin'  agin.  You  kin  go  right  over  to  Mis'  Cartwright's, 
on  the  hill,  an'  stay  to-night,  an'  to-morrow  mornin'  you 
take  the  stage  an'  go  home.  I  won't  hev  you  here.  You've 
just  got  a  leetle  better.  Go  right  away !  Levina  Lawson, 
why  don't  you  mindT* 

Her  grandmother  sat  straight  up  in  bed  with  a  ghastly 
expression  of  anger.  The  poor  little  girl  ran  out  of  the 
room  then,  sobbing.  She  stayed  in  the  house,  but  they  had 
to  hide  her  being  there  from  her  grandmother.  All  that 
night  and  the  next  day,  she  kept  listening  suspiciously. 

"Charles,"  she  would  say,  "you  wouldn't  keep  Leviny 
here  when  you  know  it's  as  much  as  her  life's  worth,  I 
know ;  but  I  keep  thinkin'  I  hear  her." 

Towards  night  she  grew  worse;  indeed,  she  died  about 
one  in  the  morning.  A  little  before,  she  stretched  out  a 
withered  hand  and  beckoned  her  son  to  her. 

"  Charles,"  whispered  she,  huskily,  "  I  want — to  tell  you 
— somethin'.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to — sell  the  place, 
an' — go  to  live  with  you  an'  Leviny — only — I  want  you  to 
go  out  in  the  mornin'  an'  dig  up  a  root  of  white  vi'lets  an' 
some  brakes,  so — I  kin  take  'em  with  me." 


ROSINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

IT  was  Monday  morning ;  Lois  had  her  washing  all  done 
and  her  kitchen  cleaned  up,  and  it  was  yet  not  ten  o'clock ; 
the  dew  had  not  dried  off  the  grass,  and  the  surprise  of  the 
morning  had  not  worn  off  in  her  heart.  Lois  was  a  girl 
who  felt  such  things.  After  she  had  finished  her  kitchen- 
work,  she  came  with  her  broom  into  the  front  entry,  with  its 
unpainted,  uneven  floor ;  she  was  going  to  sweep  that  out ; 
then  her  work  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house  was  done,  and 
she  had  nothing  more  to  do  before  dinner  except  to  put  her 
own  room  up-stairs  in  order. 

She  opened  the  front  door  after  she  had  come  the  length 
of  the  narrow  entry;  then  she  could  not  help  standing  there 
a  little  while  and  staring  out,  leaning  on  her  broom.  It 
was  beautiful  outside,  and,  apart  from  that,  the  out-doors  gave 
her  somehow  a  sweet  sense  of  companionship.  The  soft 
wind,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  sweet  spring  smells  came  in 
by  the  open  door  like  people.  Lois  felt  it,  though  she  did 
not  get  so  far  as  thinking  it.  She  had  been  lonesome,  with 
out  knowing  she  was  so  till  then.  She  was  always  alone  in 
the  house  all  clay  while  her  father  was  at  work.  Her  moth 
er  was  dead,  and  she  had  no  brothers  nor  sisters. 

The  house  faced  southeast,  and  there  was  a  weeping-wil 
low  tree  in  front  of  it.  Its  long  boughs,  which  were  more 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  H9 

like  tender  green  garlands  than  branches,  swayed  gently  in 
the  wind,  and  the  sun  shone  through  them.  Lois  looked 
at  it  radiantly.  The  spring  birds  were  singing  very  shrill 
and  sweet.  There  were  bluebirds  and  orioles,  and,  more 
than  anything  else, robins.  Lois  always  seemed  to  hear  the 
robins  plainest,  maybe  because  she  loved  them  best.  She 
had  always  liked  robins  ever  since  she  was  a  child.  But 
now  there  was  something  else  she  liked  to  listen  to  better 
than  the  robins,  and  that  was  the  sound  of  the  carpenters' 
hammers  on  a  house  over  the  way.  She  could  see  its  pinky 
unpainted  pine  walls  through  the  trees.  That  was  to  be 
her  house,  where  she  and  John  Elliot  were  to  live  when 
they  should  be  married  in  the  autumn.  The  taps  of  the 
hammers  seemed  to  Lois  to  harmonize  sweetly  with  the 
calls  of  the  bluebirds  and  the  robins ;  they  were  of  the  same 
kind  to  her ;  both  sounds  belonged  to  love  and  hope  and 
the  spring. 

Lois  was  small  and  compact  in  figure ;  her  light-brown 
hair  crinkled  closely  around  her  forehead  and  hung  in  tight 
curls  on  her  neck.  She  had  a  pretty,  thin  face,  with  bright 
eyes,  sensitive  lips,  and  a  clear  skin.  She  WHS  neat  in  her 
poor  calico  dress.  There  was  no  money  in  the  Arms  family, 
though  once  they  had  been  comfortably  off.  Hiram  Arms 
had  been  a  prosperous  farmer  on  his  own  account  up  in 
Rowe ;  now  he  was  renting  this  great,  unpainted,  weather- 
beaten  old  house  in  Pawlet,  and  letting  himself  out  to  other 
farmers  for  low  hire.  A  good  many  causes  had  brought  it 
about  :  fire  and  mortgages  and  sickness.  It  had  not  hap 
pened  until  after  Sarah  Arms's  death — that  was  always  a 
comfort  to  her  daughter  Lois.  Sarah  Arms  had  been  a  high- 
spirited  woman ;  there  were  people  who  said  that  her  ambi 
tion  and  extravagance  had  brought  about  her  husband's 


I20  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

failure.  There  had  been  a  bay-window  and  a  new  piazza 
on  that  snug  farmhouse  in  Rowe,  of  which  the  old  neigh 
bors  spoke  dubiously  now,  "  Hiram  Arms  never  ought  to 
have  put  on  them  additions,"  said  they  ;  "  but  Mis'  Arms 
would  hev  'em,  poor  woman." 

So  now  the  father  and  daughter  grubbed  along  in  Pawlet, 
the  daughter  uncomplainingly,  the  father  complainingly.  He 
was  naturally  a  nervous  man,  and  trouble  had  shaken  him. 
But  at  last,  since  Lois's  engagement  to  John  Elliot,  their 
affairs  began  to  look  brighter.  John  had  not  much  money ; 
he  would  have  to  mortgage  his  new  house;  but  he  had 
steady  work  and  good  pay,  and  a  prospect  of  better.  Hiram 
Arms  was  to  give  up,  on  his  daughter's  marriage,  the  desolate 
old  house  which  he  rented,  and  go  to  live  with  her  in  her 
new  one.  He  was  very  proud  and  happy  about  it,  and 
talked  it  over  a  good  deal  among  the  neighbors ;  he  had 
always  been  almost  foolishly  fond  of  his  daughter,  and  he 
was  growing  garrulous. 

Finally  Lois  took  her  broom  and  went  about  her  work, 
She  had  been  brought  up  on  the  rigid  New  England  plan, 
and  had  a  guilty  feeling  that  it  was  a  waste  of  time  if  she 
stopped  a  minute  to  be  happy.  There  was  very  little  furni 
ture  in  these  large,  square,  low-walled  rooms,  but  everything 
was  scrupulously  clean.  After  her  sweeping  was  done  and 
her  own  room  put  in  order,  Lois  had  a  little  time  to  sit 
down  and  sew  before  she  got  dinner ;  after  dinner,  when 
the  dishes  were  put  away  and  her  father  gone  back  to  his 
work,  she  had  a  long  quiet  spell  the  whole  afternoon  till 
six  o'clock. 

There  Lois  sat  in  the  one  of  the  two  square  front  apart 
ments  which  they  used  for  a  sitting-room,  sewing.  She  was 
making  a  kind  of  coarse  cotton  edging.  She  could  not 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  I2i 

think  of  such  things  as  bough  ten  trimming  for  her  poor  little 
wedding  outfit;  but  it  was  no  matter,  for  she  thought  this 
was  beautiful.  Hattie  Smith  had  taught  her  how  to  do  it. 
She  was  her  nearest  girl  neighbor,  and  she  lived  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  with  no  houses  between.  Lois,  as  she  sat 
there,  wished  Hattie  would  come  over  that  afternoon,  and  by 
three  o'clock  she  did  come  in  sight :  a  stout,  girlish  figure, 
in  an  ugly  light-brown  woollen  dress  fitting  tightly  over  her 
curving  shoulders.  She  had  her  plaid  shawl  over  her  arm, 
the  afternoon  was  so  warm. 

"  Oh,  Hattie,"  cried  Lois,  running  to  the  door  and  open 
ing  it,  "  I  am  so  glad  you've  come  !  I  was  awful  lonesome." 

"  Well,  I  thought  I'd  come  over  two  or  three  minutes. 
Mother  an'  I  got  our  washin'  out  of  the  way  real  early  to 
day,  and  there  wasn't  anything  to  do  at  home,  an'  I  thought 
I'd  bring  my  sewing  over  here." 

The  two  girls  sat  peacefully  down  at  their  work  in  the 
sitting-room.  Hattie  was  running  up  some  breadths  of  a 
dress,  and  Lois  kept  on  with  her  edging. 

"You  get  along  real  fast  with  that  edging,  don't  you?" 
said  Hattie. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  worked  on  it  very 
steady." 

"  I  think  it's  real  pretty." 

«  So  do  I ;  beautiful." 

Hattie  dropped  her  sewing  after  a  little,  and  stared  at 
Lois  with  an  odd  expression  on  her  large  face,  half  of  con 
cealed  pleasure,  half  of  doubt  and  commiseration. 

"  Lois,"  said  she,  "  I  heard  something  to-day,  an'  I  don't 
know  whether  to  tell  you  of  it  or  not.  I  told  mother  I  was 
half  a  mind  to,  for  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  it.  It 
made  me  real  mad." 


122  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

"  What  is  it,  Hattie  ?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  tell.  I'm  afraid  it'll 
make  you  feel  bad." 

"No,  it  won't." 

"Well,  if  you're  sure  it  won't.  I  wouldn't  mind  it  a  bit 
if  I  was  you.  It  made  me  real  mad.  I  think  she  was  just 
as  mean  as  she  could  be.  You  see,  old  Mis'  Elliot  run 
over  to  borrow  some  soap  this  morning,  an'  she  sat  down  a 
minute,  an'  we  got  to  talkin'  about  John,  an'  his  new  house, 
an'  you.  I  don't  believe  I'd  better  tell  you,  Lois." 

"Yes  :  I  won't  mind.     Go  on." 

"  Well,  mother  said  something  about  what  a  pretty  girl 
you  was,  an'  Mis'  Elliot  said,  yes,  you  was  pretty  enough, 
but  she  couldn't  help  wishing  sometimes  that  you  had  some 
thing  to  help  John  along  with  a  little.  She  always  thought 
the  woman  ought  to  furnish  the  house — she  did  when  she 
was  married — an'  it  was  a  dreadful  hinderance  to  a  young 
man  to  have  to  do  everything.  John  worked  terrible  hard, 
an'  she  was  afraid  he'd  get  sick.  And  then  she  said  she 
always  thought  a  girl  ought  to  have  at  least  two  silk  dresses 
when  she  was  married,  a  black  one  an'  a  colored  one,  and 
a  good  stock  of  clothes,  so  her  husband  wouldn't  have  to 
buy  anything  for  her  for  two  years  certain.  Now,  Lois, 
you  won't  feel  bad  ?  Why,  Lois,  don't  cry  !" 

Lois's  poor  little  cotton  edging  lay  unnoticed  in  her  lap,  and 
she  was  sobbing  pitifully  in  her  little  coarse  handkerchief. 

"  Now,  Lois,  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  if  I'd  thought  you'd 
felt  so  bad." 

Lois  wiped  her  eyes,  and  raised  her  head  bravely.  "  I 
don't  feel  bad,"  said  she ;  "  only  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
that  Mis'  Elliot  would  have  spoken  so,  when  she  knew  I 
was  doing  the  best  I  could." 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 


123 


"  Well,  /  wouldn't ;  I  think  she  was  awful  mean.  I 
wouldn't  mind  it  a  bit,  Lois." 

"I  don't,"  said  Lois,  and  took  up  the  cotton  edging  again 
and  went  on  working,  trying  to  look  pleasant  and  uncon 
cerned  with  her  red  eyes.  She  would  talk  no  more  on  the 
subject,  however,  though  Hattie  kept  alluding  to  it. 

Hattie  went  home  a  little  before  tea-time,  saying  to  her 
self  she  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  Lois  Arms.  Lois  felt 
nothing  but  honest  distress ;  no  anger  against  any  one — 
none  against  Hattie,  nor  even  against  Mrs.  Elliot.  Her 
mother,  before  she  died,  had  told  her  a  good  many  times 
that  she  had  not  enough  spirit,  and  would  have  a  hard 
time  going  through  the  world,  and  she  would  have  told  her 
that  now  had  she  been  alive. 

After  Hattie  went  she  sat  there  listening  to  the  carpen 
ters'  hammers  and  the  birds,  but  they  no  longer  sounded 
to  her  as  they  had  done.  She  kept  saying  it  over  to  her 
self  in  a  discordant  refrain  that  drowned  everything  else, 
and  took  away  the  sweetness  of  it,  with  a  bitter  after-taste  : 

"  Two  silk  dresses,  a  black  one  and  a  colored  one ;  and 
I  ought  to  furnish  the  house,  and  it's  going  to  be  a  burden 
to  John  if  I  don't." 

She  had  her  father's  supper  all  ready  for  him  when  he 
came  from  his  work,  though,  in  spite  of  her  trouble;  and 
they  ate  it  peacefully  together  in  the  great  barnlike  kitchen, 
which  stretched  the  width  of  the  house  behind  the  other 
rooms. 

It  was  odd  enough  that  her  father,  of  his  own  accord, 
should  broach  the  subject  of  her  anxiety  that  night;  but 
he  did,  after  supper,  in  the  sitting-room. 

"Lois,"  said  he,  "don't  you  want  something  to  buy  you 
some  clothes  with  ?  'Ain't  you  got  to  make  some  new 
things  before  fall  ?" 


124  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

Lois  choked  a  little  before  she  answered.  "I  guess 
you've  got  about  ways  enough  for  your  money,  father." 

"Well,  I  could  let  you  hev  a  leetlc.  I  ain't  got  much 
jest  now.  Ef  two  or  three  dollars  would  do  you  any 
good—" 

"  I  really  don't  need  it  now,  father.     I've  got  plenty." 

"Well,  you  know  best.  I  got  to  thinkin'  'bout  it  this 
afternoon — I  don't  know  what  put  it  into  my  head — when 
I  was  ploughin'.  Ef  things  were  as  they  was  once,  you'd 
hev  enough.  When  I  look  back  I  wish  your  mother  hadn't 
been  quite  so  set  'bout  hevin  them  bay-winders  and  piazzas." 

"Oh,  father,  don't." 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  don't  mean  to  find  fault.  Your  mother 
was  a  good  woman  and  a  smart  one,  and  she  meant  all 
right:  Sometimes  I  can't  help  thinkin'  it  over  ;  that's  all." 

Lois  kept  thinking  it  all  over  and  over  and  over.  Sun 
day  night  John  Elliot  came;  that  was  his  regular  courting 
night.  He  came  early,  long  before  dusk  ;  everything,  down 
to  his  love-making,  was  prompt,  and  earnest,  and  day-lighted 
with  John  Elliot.  He  looked  just  as  he  was.  His  tall, 
stout  figure  bore  his  ill-fitting  Sunday  clothes  so  sturdily 
that  it  made  up  for  their  want  of  grace  ;  his  large  face,  with 
firm,  brown  cheeks,  and  heavy  but  strong  mouth  and  chin, 
fronted  Lois,  and  her  father,  and  life,  squarely. 

The  three  sat  solemnly  in  the  front  room  for  a  little  while 
after  he  came.  Then  Mr.  Arms  went  out  into  the  kitchen, 
and  sat  down  patiently  in  his  old  arm-chair,  drawn  into  the 
back  doorway,  and  listened  to  the  frogs,  and  the  low  hum 
of  voices  in  the  next  room.  Both  sounds  seemed  to  belong 
to  a  spring  he  had  left  behind.  He  generally  went  to  bed, 
in  his  little  room  -which  opened  out  of  the  kitchen,  long  be 
fore  John  left,  though  this  sober  young  man  never  kept  his 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  125 

love  up  late.  But  to-night  he  still  sat  there  in  his  chair, 
though  half  asleep,  when  the  front  door  closed.  He  won 
dered  dreamily  why  John  went  so  soon — an  hour  earlier 
than  usual.  Then  he  heard  Lois  go  up  the  front  stairs  to 
her  room,  and  then  he  locked  the  door  and  went  to  bed  him 
self. 

Next  morning  he  looked  curiously  at  Lois  a  good  many 
times,  when  she  was  going  about  getting  breakfast  for  him 
in  the  early  light.  He  thought  she  looked  very  sober. 
Once  he  asked  her  if  she  did  not  feel  well,  and  she  said 
yes.  After  breakfast,  however,  she  said  more.  He  was  just 
putting  on  his  hat  to  go  to  his  work  when  she  stopped  him. 

"Father,"  said  she,  "I  s'pose  you  ought  to  know  it; 
John  and  I  ain't  going  to  get  married  in  the  fall." 

"You  don't  mean  you've  broke  it  off?" 

"  No  ;  I  haven't  broke  it  off,  father.  I  hope  some  time 
it'll  be  all  right,  and  that's  all  I  can  say  about  it.  Dont 
talk  any  more  about  it,  father.  I  tell  you  this,  for  I  think 
you  ought  to  know." 

It  was  not  so  easy,  however,  to  stop  her  nervous,  distressed 
father  in  his  wonderment  and  conjecturing.  He  lingered 
and  talked  and  questioned,  but  Lois  would  say  no  more 
than  she  had  said,  and  he  went  off  to  work  in  an  anxious 
bewilderment. 

He  had  been  very  confidential  about  his  daughter's  pros 
pects  with  the  farmer  whom  he  was  helping.  He  had  said 
a  good  deal  about  the  new  house,  and  how  likely  the  young 
man  was.  To-day  he  said  nothing.  When  he  came  home 
he  looked  very  old  and  dejected. 

Lois  saw  it,  with  an  awful  sinking  at  her  heart,  but  she 
never  faltered  in  her  purpose.  A  corner  of  her  resolute 
mother's  mantle  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  her  gentle, 
9 


I26  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

humble  little  daughter.  She  never  would  marry  John  El 
liot  until  she  could  go  to  him  well  enough  provided  with 
womanly  gear  not  to  be  a  burden  at  the  outset.  There 
was  no  anger  in  her  determination,  and  no  pride  deserving 
the  name. 

She  had  asked  him  the  night  before  to  defer  their  mar 
riage  a  year.  She  gave  him  no  reason  ;  she  thought  she 
could  not,  without,  perhaps,  having  his  mother's  remarks 
traced  back  and  trouble  made ;  then,  too,  she  knew  he 
would  not  consent  to  the  plan. 

The  result  was  inevitable  with  a  young  man  of  John 
Elliot's  turn  of  mind.  He  broke  the  engagement  squarely 
and  went  home.  Next  day  the  carpenters  stopped  working 
on  the  new  house.  The  silence  of  the  hammers  smote 
Lois  with  a  dreadful  sense  of  loneliness  all  day.  Her 
father  did  not  notice  it  till  Tuesday  night;  then  he  asked 
her  abruptly,  "  Have  they  stopped  work  on  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lois,  with  a  great  sob.  Then  she  ran  up 
stairs,  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  and  cried  bitterly.  She 
could  not  help  it.  Still,  strangely  enough,  she  was  very  far 
from  giving  up  all  hope.  She  had  never  believed  more 
firmly  in  her  life  that  the  new  house  would  be  finished  and 
she  and  John  live  in  it  some  day.  She  was  going  to  work 
and  earn  some  pretty  dresses  and  some  furniture;  then 
John  would  come  back,  and  it  would  be  all  right.  In  spite 
of  her  yielding  nature  there  was  in  her  a  capability  of  fine 
concentration  of  purpose,  which  she  might  not  use  more 
than  once  in  her  life,  but  which  would  work  wonders  then. 
Whether  it  would  work  wonders  with  a  practical,  unimagi 
native,  evenly  resolute  nature  like  John's,  remained  to  be 
seen.  Some  might  have  questioned  if  her  subtle  fineness 
of  strength  was  on  a  plane  equal  enough  to  admit  of  any 
struggle. 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  I2f 

She  had  not  a  doubt  about  it.  John  loved  her,  and  by 
and  by,  when  she  had  earned  enough  money,  and  had  her 
clothes  and  her  furniture,  they  would  be  married,  and  the 
carpenters  would  finish  the  new  house. 

Her  greatest  present  distress  was  her  father's  dejection 
and  her  not  seeing  John  Sunday  nights,  and  she  made  the 
best  of  that.  It  was  odd  that  she  did  not  worry  much  over 
poor  John's  possible  unhappiness;  but  she  was  so  engaged 
in  acting  against  her  own  heart  for  his  happiness  that  she 
did  not  think  of  that  consideration. 

So  she  got  the  district  school  to  teach,  and  passed  the 
summer  that  way,  instead  of  making  edging  and  listening 
to  the  carpenters'  hammers.  The  school  was  half  a  mile 
from  her  home,  and  she  had  to  keep  the  house  tidy  and 
get  meals  for  her  father,  besides  teaching,  so  she  had  to 
work  hard.  Back  and  forth  she  went,  passing  first  the 
wild  roses  and  then  the  golden-rod  on  the  country  road, 
morning  and  noon  and  night,  never  faltering.  Her  pretty 
face  got  a  strained,  earnest  look  on  it,  but  never  a  hopeless 
one.  If  John  had  only  known — but  he  worked  on  in  the 
shop  over  in  Pawlet  village,  and  never  came  near  Lois.  If 
she  were  in  his  thoughts,  he  kept  her  there  so  secretly  that 
nobody  knew.  He  went  to  work  on  week-clays  and  to 
meeting  on  Sundays  just  as  usual.  He  never  alluded  to 
Lois,  or  his  broken  -engagement,  or  his  unfinished  house, 
and  silenced  his  mother  with,  "I  don't  want  to  hear  a  word 
about  this,  mother ;  you  may  as  well  understand  it  first  as 
last." 

She  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  him  afterwards,  though 
she  got  a  good  deal  of  comfort  from  talking  it  over  among 
her  neighbors.  She  was  not  sorry,  on  the  whole,  she  said, 
that  the  match  was  broken  off.  She  had  nothing  against 


I28  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

Lois  Arms ;  she  was  a  real  pretty  little  thing,  and  ,a  good 
girl  too,  she  guessed  ;  but  she  always  thought  John  might 
do  a  little  better. 

Then,  on  John's  marriage,  she  was  to  have  been  left  alone 
in  her  neat  cottage  house,  which  ber  husband  had  bequeathed 
her;  and  although  she  had  not  wanted  to  live  with  the 
young  couple  and  sell  her  house,  or  have  the  young  couple 
live  with  her,  she  did  not  altogether  wish  to  be  left  alone. 
If  she  had  told  the  whole  truth,  she  would  have  said  that 
she  was  jealous  of  her  son,  and  did  not  really  want  him  to 
get  married  at  all. 

Lois  used  to  meet  John's  mother  sometimes,  and  would 
return  her  stiff  bow  wistfully.  She  never  thought  of  being 
angry  with  her.  John  she  never  met.  She  used  to  glance 
timidly  across  the  church  of  a  Sunday  sometimes,  and  see 
him  upright  and  grave  in  his  pew ;  but  he  never  turned  his 
head  her  way,  and  never  seemed  to  see  her. 

Lois  taught  all  that  year  till  the  next  spring ;  then  she 
had  two  hundred  dollars  in  money.  She  had  not  spent 
one  cent  of  her  salary,  but  had  saved  it  jealously.  She 
had  not  given  any  to  her  father ;  that  troubled  her  most. 
To  see  him  coming  home  from  his  hard,  pitiful  jobs  of 
wood-cutting  and  hauling  through  the  winter,  his  shoulders 
bent,  his  thin,  nervous  face  with  its  white  beard  growing 
thinner  and  more  anxious,  and  she  with  her  little  hoard, 
worried  her.  But  she  kept  thinking  it  would  be  all  right 
soon.  She  knew  his  disappointment  was  wearing  on  him  j 
but  soon  it  would  be  over,  and  this  precious  money  would 
bring  it  about. 

Lois  had  it  all  planned,  just  what  she  would  do  with  her 
money.  Seventy-five  dollars  would  buy  her  dresses,  she 
thought,  and  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  her  furniture. 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  T2g 

She  anticipated  a  sumptuous  housekeeping  outfit  from  that. 
She  was  as  innocent  as  a  child  about  the  cost  of  things. 
Then  John  would  come  back  to  her,  and  the  taps  of  the 
hammers  on  the  new  house  would  chime  in  again  with  the 
songs  of  the  robins. 

Lois  was  thinking  what  day  she  should  go  over  to  the 
village  to  buy  her  dresses,  and  how  she  should  send  a  little 
note  to  John,  when  one  day,  shortly  after  her  school  closed, 
her  father  was  brought  home  with  a  broken  arm.  That 
settled  the  matter.  The  dresses  were  not  bought,  the  note 
was  not  written,  and  the  carpenters'  hammers  remained  si 
lent  when  the  robins  began  to  sing.  Lois's  school  money 
paid  the  rent  and  the  doctor's  bill,  and  bought  food  for 
herself  and  father.  She  nursed  her  father  till  he  was  about 
again,  and  then  she  took  up  her  school-work  and  began 
anew.  She  went  without  everything.  She  wore  her  poor 
little  shoes  out  at  the  toes ;  in  the  winter  she  wrapped  her 
shawl  round  her  little  red  fingers  and  went  without  gloves. 
She  went  past  the  wild  roses  again,  then  the  golden-rod  and 
asters,  then  the  red  maple  boughs,  then  the  snow-drifts,  back 
and  forth  between  her  home  and  the  schoolhouse,  with  her 
pretty,  enduring,  eager  face,  till  spring  came  once  more. 

A  few  weeks  after  her  school  closed,  John  Elliot,  coming 
home  from  the  shop  at  dusk  one  rainy  Saturday  night,  met 
a  girl  on  the  covered  bridge  just  before  he  got  to  his  home. 
She  had  been  standing  motionless  at  the  farther  entrance 
till  she  had  seen  him  enter  at  the  other;  then  she  had 
walked  forward  towards  him  rapidly.  She  extended  her 
hand,  with  something  white  in  it,  when  she  reached  him. 

"Mr.  Elliot,"  said  she,  trembling,  "here's  a  note  for  you, 
if  you'll  please  read  it  when  you  get  home." 

Then  he  saw  it  was  Lois. 


130  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  said  he,  stiffly,  and  took  the  note  and 
went  on. 

When  he  got  home  he  opened  it  and  read,  holding  it  un 
der  the  light  on  the  kitchen  shelf,  when  his  mother  was  out 
of  the  room.  It  did  not  take  long  to  read.  It  was  only  : 

"  DEAR  JOHN, — Will  you  please  come  over  to  my  house  a  little  while 
to-morrow  night  ?  I  want  to  see  you  about  something.  Lois." 

He  folded  the  note  then,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  asked 
his  mother  if  supper  were  ready. 

The  next  evening  he  was  so  long  about  getting  ready  for 
meeting,  and  brushed  his  coat  and  blacked  his  boots  so 
punctiliously,  that  his  mother  noticed  it  and  wondered. 
Was  he  going  to  see  Lois  Arms  ?  But  he  did  not  go.  He 
only  went  to  meeting,  and  straight  home  afterwards. 

If  he  had  only  known  how  Lois  was  watching  for  him — 
though  then  it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  have  gone  at  once. 
The  limitations  of  his  convictions  would  always  be  stronger 
than  his  own  inclination  with  him.  He  could  not  slacken 
his  own  tight  rein  over  himself  very  easily  at  his  own  com 
mand.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  never  to  go  near  Lois 
again,  and  he  could  not  break  his  resolve.  He  tried, 
though.  Many  an  evening  in  the  following  weeks  he 
dressed  himself  in  his  Sunday  suit,  and  even  started  to  go 
to  see  Lois  ;  but  he  never  went. 

Meanwhile  it  was  too  much  for  Lois.  It  began  to  be 
whispered  about  the  neighborhood  that  Lois  Arms  was  very 
poorly ;  she  was  going  into  a  decline.  John  heard  nothing 
of  it,  however  •  not  till  his  mother  told  him  one  evening, 
about  the  first  of  June. 

"  John,"  said  she — they  were  sitting  at  the  tea-table — 
'"'  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you,  for  I  think  you'd  ought  to  know  it. 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  I3! 

I've  been  over  to  see  Lois  Arms  this  afternoon.  I  heard 
she  wa'n't  well,  an'  I  thought  I'd  ought  to ;  an'  I  think  she's 
goin'  the  way  your  sister  Mary  did." 

John  sat  perfectly  still,  staring  at  his  mother. 

"  She  looks  awfully.  She  was  layin'  on  the  settee  in  the 
sittin'-room  when  I  went  in.  She  was  all  alone.  An'  that 
ain't  all,  John ;  I  know  she's  a-frettin'  over  you.  I  sat 
down  there  side  of  her,  you  know,  an'  she  looked  up  at  me  so 
kind  of  wishful.  I  can't  help  cryin'  now  when  I  think  of  it." 

"  '  You  ain't  feeling  very  well,  Lois?'  says  I. 

"  '  No,'  says  she,  and  tried  to  smile.  But  she  couldn't  \ 
she  bust  right  out  cryin'.  How  she  did  cry !  She  sobbed 
an'  sobbed  till  I  thought  she'd  kill  herself.  She  shook  all 
over,  and  there  ain't  anything  to  her.  I  put  my  face  down 
close  to  her." 

"  'What's  the  matter,  you  poor  child  ?'  says  I. 

" '  Oh,  Mis'  Elliot !'  says  she,  and  she  put  up  her  poor 
little  thin  arms  round  my  neck  an'  cried  harder. 

"  *  Lois,'  says  I, '  is  it  anything  about  John  ?' 

" '  Oh,'  says  she—'  oh,  Mis'  Elliot !'  again. 

" '  Do  you  want  to  see  him  ?'  says  I. 

"  She  didn't  say  anything,  only  jest  held  me  tighter  and 
cried  harder ;  but  I  knew  as  well's  I  wanted  to.  I  wish 
you'd  go  over  there,  John  ;  I  think  you'd  ought  to.  It's  ac- 
cordin'  to  what  you  profess.  I'll  own  I  wa'n't  jest  pleased 
with  the  idea  of  it  at  first ;  but  she's  a  real  good  girl,  an' 
she's  seemed  real  smart  lately  'bout  teachin'  school.  An' 
she  did  make  me  think  so  much  of  your  sister  Mary,  the 
way  she  looked.  Mary  didn't  hev  anything  of  that  kind  on 
her  mind,  poor  child,  I'm  thankful  to  say ;  but  she  looked 
jest  like  her.  I  declare  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it." 

Mrs.  Elliot  broke  down  and  cried.     John  said  nothing, 


I32  ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS. 

but  rose  and  went  away  from  the  table,  leaving  his  supper 
untasted.  Even  then  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  go  and 
see  Lois  that  night;  he  had  to  wait  till  the  next;  but  he 
went  then. 

It  was  hardly  dark.  Lois  was  lying  on  the  settee  in  the 
sitting-room  when  he  went  in  without  knocking. 

"Lois!" 

«  Oh,  John  !" 

"  How  do  you  do  to-night,  Lois?  I  didn't  know  you  were 
sick  till  mother  told  me  last  night." 

"  I'm  better.     Oh,  John  !" 

He  pulled  a  chair  up  beside  her,  and  sat  down.  "  See 
here,  Lois,  I  read  your  note  you  gave  me,  you  know ;  but — 
I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  come,  after  all  that  had  happened, 
to  tell  the  truth.  I'm  sorry  enough  I  couldn't,  now." 

"  It's  all  right,  John  ;  never  mind." 

"Now,  Lois,  what  has  all  the  trouble  been  about?" 

"  What  trouble  ?" 

"The  whole  of  it  from  the  first.  What  made  you  do  the 
way  you  did,  an'  put  off  gettin'  married  ?" 

"  Don't  make  me  tell  you,  John." 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to  make  you.  I  know  you're  sick,  an' 
it  seems  cruel  to  bother  you ;  but  it's  the  only  way.  It 
ain't  in  me  to  go  on  an'  pretend  everything's  all  right  when 
it  ain't.  I  can  clo  everything  else  for  you  but  that,  an'  I 
can't  do  that  if  it's  to  save  your  life.  "  You've  got  to  be 
open  with  me  now,  an'  tell  me." 

"  John,  if  I  do,  will  you  promise  me,  solemn,  that  you 
won't  ever  tell  anybody  else?" 

"Yes,  I'll  promise." 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  wasn't  doing  right  by  you  if  I  got 
married  that  fall.  I  didn't  have  anything  hardly,  not  one 


ROBINS  AND  HAMMERS.  !33 

silk  dress,  and  I  couldn't  do  anything  towards  furnishing 
the  house.  I  thought  if  I  should  earn  some  money  it  would 
make  it  easier  for  you.  I  didn't  want  to  begin  to  be  a  bur 
den  to  you  right  off,  John." 

"  But —  Why,  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  Lois. 
What  put  such  a  thing  into  your  head  all  of  a  sudden  ?" 

"I  ought  to  have  thought  of  it  before." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  couldn't.     You  wouldn't  have  let  me  do  it." 

"  Lois,  I  never  saw  a  girl  like  you.  Here  you've  been 
working  hard  these  two  years,  an'  'most  killing  yourself,  an' 
never  letting  me  know,  an'  me  not  knowing  what  to  think." 

"John,  I've  got  a  beautiful  black-silk  dress  and  a  blue 
one  and  lots  of  other  things.  Then  I've  got  more'n  a  hun 
dred  dollars  saved  to  buy  furniture." 

"WThat  do  you  think  I  care  about  the  dresses  and  the 
furniture  ?  I  wish  they  were  in  Gibraltar !" 

"  Don't  scold  me,  John." 

"  Scold  you  ?  There  !  I  guess  I  won't.  Poor  Lois  !  poor 
girl !  You  meant  all  right,  but  it  was  all  wrong.  You've 
'most  killed  yourself.  But  it'll  be  all  right  now.  Shall  I 
set  the  carpenters  to  work  to-morrow,  darlin'?" 

"Oh,  John!" 

"  I'll  speak  to  'em  bright  and  early,  an'  you  must  hurry 
an'  get  well.  You  worryin'  about  being  a  burden !  Oh, 
my  Lord !  Lois,  I'll  never  get  over  it.  You  silly,  blessed 
little  girl !  There's  your  father  coming." 

The  next  morning  Lois  did  not  wake  very  early,  she  had 
slept  so  soundly ;  but  when  she  did  she  heard — incredu 
lously  at  first,  then  in  a  rapture  of  conviction — the  carpen 
ters'  hammers.  The  robins  were  singing,  too. 

Then  her  father  called  up  the  stairs  :  "  Lois  !  Lois  !  John's 
begun  work  on  the  new  house  again  !" 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD. 

WALPOLE  was  a  lively  little  rural  emporium  of  trade; 
thither  the  villagers  from  the  small  country  hamlets  there 
abouts  went  to  make  the  bulk  of  their  modest  purchases. 

One  summer  afternoon  two  women  were  driving  slowly 
along  a  road  therefrom,  in  a  dusty  old-fashioned  chaise, 
whose  bottom  was  heaped  up  with  brown-paper  parcels. 

One  woman  might  have  been  seventy,  but  she  looked 
younger,  she  was  so  hale  and  portly.  She  had  a  double, 
bristling  chin,  her  gray  eyes  twinkled  humorously  over  her 
spectacles,  and  she  wore  a  wide-flaring  black  straw  bonnet 
with  purple  bows  on  the  inside  of  the  rim.  The  afternoon 
was  very  warm,  and  she  held  in  one  black-mitted  hand  a 
palm-leaf  fan,  which  she  waved  gently,  now  and  then,  over 
against  her  capacious  bosom. 

The  other  woman  was  younger — forty,  perhaps  ;  her  face 
was  plain-featured  and  energetic.  She  wore  a  gray  serge 
dress  and  drab  cotton  gloves,  and  held  tightly  on  to  the 
reins  as  she  drove.  Now  and  then  she  would  slap  them 
briskly  upon  the  horse's  back.  He  was  a  heavy,  hard- 
worked  farm  animal,  and  was  disposed  to  jog  along  at  an 
easy  pace  this  warm  afternoon. 

There  had  not  been  any  rain  for  a  long  time,  and  every 
thing  was  very  dusty.  This  road  was  not  much  travelled, 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD.  !35 

and  grass  was  growing  between  the  wheel-ruts;  but  the 
soil  flew  up  like  smoke  from  the  horse's  hoofs  and  the 
wheels.  The  blackberry  vines  climbing  over  the  stone 
walls  on  either  side,  and  the  meadow-sweet  and  hardhack 
bushes  were  powdered  thickly  with  dust,  and  had  gray  leaves 
instead  of  green.  The  big-leaved  things,  such  as  burdock, 
growing  close  to  the  ground,  had  their  veins  all  outlined  in 
dust. 

The  two  women  rode  in  a  peaceful  sort  of  way ;  the  old 
lady  fanned  herself  mildly,  and  the  younger  one  slapped 
the  horse  mechanically.  Neither  spoke,  till  they  emerged 
into  a  more  open  space  on  a  hill-crest.  There  they  had  an 
uninterrupted  view  of  the  northwest  sky  ;  the  trees  had  hid 
den  it  before. 

"I  declare,  Almiry,"  said  the  old  lady,  "we  air  goin'  to 
hev  a  thunder-shower." 

"If  won't  get  up  till  we  get  home,"  replied  the  other, 
"  an'  ten  chances  to  one  it'll  go  round  by  the  north  anyway, 
and  not  touch  us  at  all.  That's  the  way  they  do  half  the 
time  here.  If  I'd  'a  seen  a  cloud  as  black  as  that  down 
where  I  used  to  live,  I'd  'a  known  for  sure  there  was  goin' 
to  be  a  heavy  tempest,  but  here  there's  no  knowin'  anything 
about  it.  I  wouldn't  worry  anyway,  Mis'  Green,  if  it  should 
come  up  before  we  get  home :  the  horse  ain't  afraid  of 
lightnin'." 

The  old  lady  looked  comical.  "  He  ain't  afraid  of  any 
thing,  is  he,  Almiry  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  her  companion,  giving  the  horse  a  spite 
ful  slap  \  "  he  don't  know  enough  to  get  scared  even,  that's 
a  fact.  I  don't  believe  anything  short  of  Gabriel's  trumpet 
would  start  him  up  a  bit." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  speak  that  way,  Almiry," 


I36  ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD. 

.said  the  old  lady  ;  "  it's  kinder  makin'  light  o'  sacred  things, 
seems  to  me.  But  as  long  as  you've  spoke  of  it,  I  don't 
believe  that  would  start  him  up  either.  Though  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing,  Almiry:  I  don't  believe  thar's  goin'  to  be 
anything  very  frightful  'bout  Gabriel's  trumpet.  I  think  it's 
goin'  to  come  kinder  like  the  robins  an'  the  flowers  do  in 
the  spring,  kinder  meltin'  right  into  everything  else,  sweet 
aw-'  nateral  like." 

"  That  ain't  accordin'  to  Scripture,"  said  Almira,  stoutly. 

"  It's  accordin'  to  my  Scripture.  I  tell  you  what  'tis, 
Almiry,. I've  found  out  one  thing  a-livin'  so  long,  an'  that 
is,  thar  ain't  so  much  difference  in  things  on  this  airth  as 
thar  is  in  the  folks  that  see  'em.  It's  me  a-seein'  the  Scrip- 
turs,  an'  it's  you  a-seein'  the  Scripturs,  Almiry,  an'  you  see 
one  thing  an'  I  another,  an'  I  dare  say  we  both  see  crooked 
mostly,  with  maybe  a  little  straight  mixed  up  with  it,  an' 
we'll  never  reely  know  how  much  is  straight  till  we  see  to 
read  it  by  the  light  of  the  New  Jerusalem." 

"You  ought  to  ha'  ben  a  minister,  Mis'  Green." 

"  Wa'al,  so  I  would  ha'  ben  ef  I  had  been  a  man ;  I 
allers  thought  I  would.  But  I  s'pose  the  Lord  thought 
there  was  more  need  of  an  extra  hand  just  then  to  raise  up 
children,  an'  bake  an'  brew  an'  wash  dishes.  You'd  better 
drive  along  a  leetle  faster  ef  you  kin,  Almiry." 

Almira  jerked  the  reins  viciously  and  clucked,  but 
the  horse  jogged  along  undisturbed.  "It  ain't  no  use," 
said  she.  "You  might  as  well  try  to  start  up  a  stone 
post." 

"  Wa'al,  mebbe  the  -shower  won't  come  up,"  said  the 
old  lady,  and  she  leaned  back  and  began  peacefully  fan 
ning  herself. 

"  That  cloud  makes  me  think  of  Aunt  Rebecca's  funeral," 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD.  !37 

she  broke  out,  suddenly.  "  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  it, 
Almiry  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  you  ever  did,  Mis'  Green." 

"Wa'al,  mebbe  you'll  like  to  hear  it,  as  we're  joggin' 
along.  It'll  keep  us  from  getting  aggervated  at  the  horse, 
poor,  dumb  thing  !" 

"  Wa'al,  you  see,  Almiry,  Aunt  Rebecca  was  my  aunt  on 
my  mother's  side — my  mother's  oldest  sister  she  was — an' 
I'd  allers  thought  a  sight  of  her.  This  happened  twenty 
year  ago  or  more,  before  Israel  died.  She  was  allers  such  an 
own-folks  sort  of  a  woman,  an'  jest  the  best  hand  when  any 
one  was  sick  I'll  never  forgit  how  she  nussed  me  through 
the  typhus  fev^r,  the  year  after  mother  died.  Thar  I  was 
took  sick  all  of  a  sudden,  an'  four  leetle  children  cryin',  an' 
Israel  couldn't  get  anybody  but  that  shiftless  Lyons  woman, 
far  and  near,  to  come  an'  help.  When  Aunt  Rebecca  heerd 
of  it  she  jest  left  everything  an'  come.  She  packed  off 
that  Lyons  woman,  bag  an'  baggage,  an'  tuk  right  hold,  as 
nobody  but  her  could  ha'  known  how  to.  I  allers  knew  I 
should  ha'  died  ef  it  hadn't  been  for  her. 

"  She  lived  ten  miles  off,  on  this  very  road,  too,  but  we 
allers  used  to  visit  back  an'  forth.  I  couldn't  get  along 
without  goin'  to  see  Aunt  Rebecca  once  in  so  often ;  I'd 
get  jest  as  lonesome  an'  homesick  as  could  be. 

"  So,  feelin'  that  way,  it  ain't  surprising  that  it  gave  me  an 
awful  shock  when  I  heerd  she  was  dead  that  mornin'. 
They  sent  the  word  by  a  man  that  they  hailed,  drivin'  by. 
He  was  comin'  down  here  to  see  about  sellin'  a  horse,  an' 
he  said  he'd  jest  as  soon  stop  an'  tell  us  as  not.  A  real 
nice  sort  of  a  man  he  was— a  store-keeper  from  Comstock. 
Wa'al,  I  see  Israel  standin'  out  in  the  road  an'  talkin'  with 
the  man,  an'  I  wondered  what  it  could  be  about.  But  when 


J38  ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD. 

he  came  in  an'  told  me  that  Aunt  Rebecca  was  dead,  I  jest 
sat  right  down,  kinder  stunned  like.  I  couldn't  ha'  felt 
much  worse  ef  it  had  been  my  mother.  An'  it  was  so 
awful  sudden  !  Why,  I'd  seen  her  only  the  week  before, 
an'  she  looked  uncommon  smart  for  her,  I  thought.  Ef  it 
had  been  Uncle  Enos,  her  husband,  I  shouldn't  ha'  won 
dered.  He'd  had  the  heart-disease  for  years,  an'  we'd 
thought  he  might  die  any  minute;  but  to  think  of  her — 

"  I  jest  stared  at  Israel.  I  felt  too  bad  to  cry.  I  didn't, 
till  I  happened  to  look  down  at  the  apron  I  had  on.  It 
was  like  a  dress  she  had ;  she  had  a  piece  left,  an'  she  gave 
it  to  me  for  an  apron.  When  I  saw  that,  I  bust  right  out 
sobbin'. 

"  '  O  Lord,'  says  I, '  this  apron  she  give  me  !  Oh  dear ! 
dear !  dear !' 

"  '  Sarah,'  says  Israel,  « it's  the  will  of  the  Lord.' 

"  *  I  know  it,'  says  I,  '  but  she's  dead,  an'  she  gave  me 
this  apron,  clear  blessed  woman,'  an'  I  went  right  on  cryin', 
though  he  tried  to  stop  me.  Every  time  I  looked  at  that 
apron,  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  die. 

"Thar  wa'n't  any  particulars,  Israel  said.  All  the  man 
that  told  him  knew  was  that  a  woman  hailed  him  from  one 
of  the  front  windows  as  he  was  drivin'  by,  and  asked  him 
to  stop  an'  tell  us.  I  s'posed  most  likely  the  woman  that 
hailed  him  was  Mis'  Simmons,  a  widder  woman  that  used 
to  work  for  Aunt  Rebecca  busy  times. 

"Wa'al,  Israel  kinder  hurried  me  to  get  ready.  The 
funeral  was  app'inted  at  two  o'clock,  an'  we  had  a  horse 
that  wa'n't  much  swifter  on  the  road  than  the  one  you're 
drivin'  now. 

"  So  I  got  into  my  best  black  gown  the  quickest  I  could. 
I  had  a  good  black  shawl,  and  a  black  bunnit  too;  so  I 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD.  I39 

looked  quite  decent.  I  felt  reel  glad  I  had  em'.  They 
were  things  I  had  when  mother  died.  I  don't  see  hardly 
how  I  had  happened  to  keep  the  bun  nit,  but  it  was  lucky  I 
did.  I  got  ready  in  such  a  flutter  that  I  got  on  my  black 
gown  over  the  caliker  one  I'd  been  wearin',  an'  never  knew 
it  till  I  came  to  go  to  bed  that  night,  but  I  don't  think  it 
was  much  wonder. 

"We'd  been  havin'  a  terrible  dry  spell,  jest  as  we've  been 
havin'  now,  an'  everything  was  like  powder.  I  thought  my 
dress  would  be  spoilt  before  we  got  thar.  The  horse  was 
dreadful  lazy,  an'  it  was  nothin'  but  g'langin'  an'  slappin'  an' 
whippin'  all  the  way,  an'  it  didn't  amount  to  nothin'  then. 

"  When  we'd  got  half-way  thar  or  so,  thar  come  up  an 
awful  thunder-shower  from  the  northwest,  jest  as  it's  doin' 
to-day.  Wa'al,  thar  wa'n't  nowhar  to  stop,  an'  we  driv 
right  along.  The  horse  wa'n't  afraid  of  lightnin',  an'  we  got 
in  under  the  shay  top  as  far  as  we  could,  an'  pulled  the 
blanket  up  over  us  ;  but  we  got  drippin'  wet.  An'  thar  was 
Israel  in  his  meetin'  coat,  an'  me  in  my  best  gown.  Take 
it  with  the  dust  an'  everything,  they  never  looked  anyhow 
again. 

"  Wa'al,  Israel  g'langed  to  the  horse,  an'  put  the  whip 
over  her,  but  she  jest  jogged  right  along.  What  with  feelin' 
so  about  Aunt  Rebecca,  an'  worryin'  about  Israel's  coat  an' 
my  best  gown,  I  thought  I  should  never  live  to  git  thar. 

"When  we  driv  by  the  meetin'-house  at  Four  Corners, 
where  Aunt  Rebecca  lived,  it  was  five  minutes  after  two,  an' 
two  was  the  time  sot  for  the  funeral.  I  did  feel  reel  worked 
up  to  think  we  was  late,  an'  we  chief  mourners.  When  we 
got  to  the  house  thar  seemed  to  be  consider'ble  goin'  on 
around  it,  folks  goin'  in  an'  out,  an'  standin'  in  the  yard, 
an'  Israel  said  he  didn't  believe  we  was  late,  after  all.  He 


1 40  ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD. 

hollered  to  a  man  standin'  by  the  fence,  an'  asked  him  if 
they  had  had  the  funeral.  The  man  said  no ;  they  was 
goin'  to  hev  it  at  the  meetin'-house  at  three  o'clock.  We 
was  glad  enough  to  hear  that,  an'  Israel  said  he  would  drive 
round  an'  hitch  the  horse,  an'  I'd  better  go  in  an'  get  dried 
off  a  little,  an'  see  the  folks. 

"  It  had  slacked  up  then,  an'  was  only  drizzlin'  a  leetle, 
an'  lightnin'  a  good  ways  off  now  an'  then. 

"  Wa'al,  I  got  out,  an'  went  up  to  the  house.  Thar  was 
quite  a  lot  of  men  I  knew  standin'  round  the  door  an'  in  the 
entry,  but  they  only  bowed  kinder  stiff  an'  solemn,  an' 
moved  to  let  me  pass.  I  noticed  the  entry  floor  was  drip- 
pin'  wet  too.  *  Been  rainin'  in,'  thinks  I.  *  I  wonder  why 
they  didn't  shet  the  door.'  I  went  right  into  the  room  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  entry — that  was  the  settin'-room — 
an'  thar,  a-settin'  in  a  cheer  by  the  winder,  jest  as  straight 
an'  smart  as  could  be,  in  her  new  black  bunnit  an'  gown, 
was — Aunt  Rebecca. 

"Wa'al,  ef  I  was  to  tell  you  what  I  did,  Almiry,  I  s'pose 
you'd  think  it  was  awful.  But  I  s'pose  the  sudden  change 
from  feelin'  so  bad  made  me  kinder  highstericky.  I  jest  sot 
right  down  in  the  first  cheer  I  come  to  an'  laughed  ;  I 
laughed  till  the  tears  was  runnin'  down  my  cheeks,  an'  it 
was  all  I  could  do  to  breathe.  There  was  quite  a  lot  of 
Uncle  Enos's  folks  settin'  round  the  room — his  brother's 
family  an'  some  cousins — an'  they  looked  at  me  as  ef  they 
thought  I  was  crazy.  But  seein'  them  look  only  sot  me  off 
again.  Some  of  the  folks  came  in  from  the  entry,  an'  stood 
starin'  at  me,  but  I  jest  laughed  harder.  Finally  Aunt  Re 
becca  comes  up  to  me. 

"  *  For  mercy's  sake,  Sarah,'  says  she, '  what  air  you  doin' 
so  for?' 


ON  THE  WALPOLE  ROAD.  141 

" ' Oh,  dear !'  says  I.  '  I  thought  you  was  dead,  an'  thar 
you  was  a-settin'.  Oh  dear  !' 

"  And  then  I  begun  to  laugh  again.  I  was  awful  'shamed 
of  myself,  but  I  couldn't  stop  to  save  my  life. 

"'For  the  land's  sake,  Aunt  Rebecca,' says  I,  'is  thar  a 
funeral  or  a  weddin'  ?  An'  ef  thar  is  a  funeral,  who's  dead  ?' 

" '  Come  into  the  bedroom  with  me  a  minute,  Sarah,' 
says  she. 

"Then  we  went  into  her  bedroom,  that  opened  out  of 
the  settin-room,  an'  sot  down,  an'  she  told  me  that  it  was 
Uncle  Enos  that  was  dead.  It  seems  she  was  the  one  that 
hailed  the  man,  an'  he  was  a  little  hard  of  hearin',  an'  thar 
was  a  misunderstandin'  between  'em  some  way. 

"  Uncle  Enos  had  died  very  sudden,  the  day  before,  of 
heart-disease.  He  went  into  the  settin':room  after  break 
fast,  an'  sot  down  by  the  winder,  an'  Aunt  Rebecca  found 
him  thar  dead  in  his  cheer  when  she  went  in  a  few  minutes 
afterwards. 

"It  was  such  awful  hot  weather  they  had  to  hurry  about 
the  funeral.  But  that  wa'n't  all.  Then  she  went  on  to 
tell  me  the  rest.  They  had  had  the  awfulest  time  that  ever 
was.  The  shower  had  come  up  about  one  o'clock,  and  the 
barn  had  been  struck  by  lightnin'.  It  was  a  big  new  one 
that  Uncle  Enos  had  sot  great  store  by.  He  had  laid  out 
consider'ble  money  on  it,  an'  they'd  jest  got  in  twelve  ton 
of  hay.  I  s'pose  that  was  how  it  happened  to  be  struck. 
A  barn  is  a  good  deal  more  likely  to  be  when  they've  jest 
got  hay  in.  Well,  everybody  sot  to  an'  put  the  fire  in  the 
barn  out.  They  handed  buckets  of  water  up  to  the  men  on 
the  roof,  an'  put  that  out  without  much  trouble  by  takin'  it 
in  time. 

"  But  after  they'd  got  that  put  out  they  found  the  house 
10 


142 


ON  THE   WALPOLE  ROAD. 


was  on  fire.  The  same  thunderbolt  that  struck  the  barn 
had  struck  that  too,  an'  it  was  blazin'  away  at  one  end  of 
the  roof  pretty  lively. 

"  Wa'al,  they  went  to  work  at  that  then,  an'  they'd  jest 
got  that  fairly  put  out  a  few  minutes  before  we  come.  Noth- 
in'  was  hurt  much,  only  thar  was  a  good  deal  of  water 
round  :  we  had  hard  work  next  day  cleanin'  of  it  up. 

"  Aunt  Rebecca  allers  was  a  calm  sort  of  woman,  an'  she 
didn't  seem  near  as  much  flustered  by  it  all  as  most  folks 
would  have  been. 

"  I  couldn't  help  wonderin',  an'  lookin'  at  her  pretty  sharp 
to  see  how  she  took  Uncle  Enos's  death,  too.  You  see,  thar 
was  something  kinder  curious  about  their  gittin'  married. 
I'd  heerd  about  it  all  from  mother.  I  don't  s'pose  she  ever 
wanted  him,  nor  cared  about  him  the  best  she  could  do,  any 
more  than  she  would  have  about  any  good,  respectable  man 
that  was  her  neighbor.  Uncle  Enos  was  a  pretty  good  sort 
of  a  man,  though  he  was  allers  dreadful  sot  in  his  ways,  an' 
I  believe  it  would  have  been  wuss  than  death,  any  time,  for 
him  to  have  given  up  anything  he  had  determined  to  hev. 
But  I  must  say  I  never  thought  so  much  of  him  after  mother 
told  me  what  she  did.  You  see,  the  way  of  it  was,  my  grand 
mother  Wilson,  Aunt  Rebecca's  mother,  was  awful  sot  on  her 
hevin'  him,  an'  she  was  dreadful  nervous  an'  feeble,  an'  Aunt 
Rebecca  jest  give  in  to  her.  The  wust  of  it  was,  thar  was 
some  one  else  she  wanted  too,  an'  he  wanted  her.  Abner 
Lyons  his  name  was ;  he  wa'n't  any  relation  to  the  Lyons 
woman  I  had  when  I  was  sick.  He  was  a  real  likely 
young  feller,  an'  thar  wa'n't  a  thing  agin  him  that  any  one 
else  could  see ;  but  grandmother  fairly  hated  him,  an'  moth 
er  said  she  did  believe  her  mother  would  rather  hev  buried 
Rebecca  than  seen  her  married  to  him.  Well,  grandmother 


ON  THE   WALPOLE  ROAD.  I43 

took  on,  an'  acted  so,  that  Aunt  Rebecca  give  in  an'  said 
she'd  marry  Uncle  Enos,  an'  the  weddin'-day  come. 

"  Mother  said  she  looked  handsome  as  a  pictur',  but  thar 
was  somethin'  kinder  awful  about  her  when  she  stood  up 
before  the  minister  with  Uncle  Enos  to  be  married. 

"  She  was  dressed  in  green  silk,  an'  had  some  roses  in 
her  hair.  I  kin  imagine  jest  how  she  must  hev  looked. 
She  was  a  good-lookin'  woman  when  I  knew  her,  an'  they 
said  when  she  was  young  there  wa'n't  many  to  compare 
with  her. 

"  Mother  said  Uncle  Enos  looked  nice,  but  he  had  his 
mouth  kinder  hard  sot,  as  ef  now  he'd  got  what  he  wanted, 
an'  meant  to  hang  on  to  it.  He'd  known  all  the  time  jest 
how  matters  was.  Aunt  Rebecca'd  told  him  the  whole 
story  ;  she  declared  she  wouldn't  marry  him,  without  she 
did. 

"  I  s'pose,  at  the  last  minute,  that  Aunt  Rebecca  got  kinder 
desp'rate,  an'  a  realizin'  sense  of  what  she  was  doin'  come 
over  her,  an'  she  thought  she'd  make  one  more  effort  to 
escape ;  for  when  the  minister  asked  that  question  'bout 
thar  bein'  any  obstacles  to  their  gettin'  married,  an'  ef  thar 
were,  let'  em  speak  up,  or  forever  hold  their  peace,  Aunt  Re 
becca  did  speak  up.  Mother  said  she  looked  straight  at  the 
parson,  an'  her  eyes  was  shinin'  an  her  cheeks  white  as  lilies. 

"  *  Yes,'  says  she,  *  thar  is  an  obstacle,  an'  I  will  speak, 
an'  then  I  will  forever  hold  my  peace.  I  don't  love  this 
man  I'm  standin'  beside  of,  an'  I  love  another  man.  Now 
ef  Enos  Fairweather  wants  me  after  what  I've  said,  I've 
promised  to  marry  him,  an'  you  kin  go  on ;  but  I  won't  tell 
or  act  a  lie  before  God  an'  man.' 

"  Mother  said  it  was  awful.  You  could  hev  heerd  a  pin 
drop  anywheres  in  the  room.  The  minister  jest  stopped 


I44  ON  THE   WALPOLE   ROAD. 

short  an'  looked  at  Uncle  Enos,  an'  Uncle  Enos  nodded 
his  head  for  him  to  go  on. 

"  But  then  the  minister  begun  to  hev  doubts  as  to  whether 
or  no  he  ought  to  marry  'em  after  what  Aunt  Rebecca  had 
said,  an'  it  seemed  for  a  minute  as  ef  thar  wouldn't  be  any 
weddin'  at  all. 

"  But  grandmother  begun  to  cry,  an'  take  on,  an'  Aunt 
Rebecca  jest  turned  round  an'  looked  at  her.  'Go  on/ 
says  she  to  the  minister. 

"  Mother  said  ef  thar  was  ever  anybody  looked  fit  to  be 
a  martyr,  Aunt  Rebecca  did  then.  But  it  never  seemed  to 
me  t'was  right.  Marryin'  to  please  your  relations  an'  dyin' 
to  please  the  Lord  is  two  things. 

"Wa'al,  I  never  thought  much  of  Uncle  Enos  after  I 
heerd  that  story,  though,  as  I  said  before,  I  guess  he  was  a 
pretty  good  sort  of  a  man.  The  principal  thing  that  was 
bad  about  him,  I  guess,  was,  he  was  bound  to  hev  Aunt 
Rebecca,  an'  he  didn't  let  anything,  even  proper  self-re 
spect  stand  in  his  way. 

"  Aunt  Rebecca  allers  did  her  duty  by  him,  an'  was  a  good 
wife  an'  good  housekeeper.  They  never  had  any  children. 
But  I  don't  s'pose  she  was  ever  really  happy  or  contented,  an' 
I  don't  see  how  she  could  hev  respected  Uncle  Enos,  scursly, 
for  my  part,  but  you'd  never  hev  known  but  what  she  did. 

"  So  I  looked  at  her  pretty  sharp,  as  we  sot  thar  in  her 
little  bedroom  that  opened  out  of  the  settin'-room  ;  thar  was 
jest  room  for  one  cheer  beside  the  bed,  an'  I  sot  on  the  bed. 
It  seemed  rather  awful,  with  him  a-layin'  dead  in  the  best 
room,but  I  couldn't  help  wonderin'ef  she  wouldn't  marry  Ab- 
ner  Lyons  now.  He'd  never  got  married,  but  lived,  all  by  him 
self,  jest  at  the  rise  of  the  hill  from  where  Aunt  Rebecca  lived. 
He'd  never  had  a  housekeeper,  but  jest  shifted  for  himself, 


ON  THE   WALPOLE  ROAD.  I45 

an'  folks  said  his  house  was  as  neat  as  wax,  an'  he  could 
cook  an'  wash  dishes  as  handy  as  a  woman.  He  used  to 
hev  his  washin'  out  on  the  line  by  seven  o'clock  of  a  Mon 
day  mornin',  anyhow ;  that  I  know,  for  I've  seen  it  myself; 
an'  the  clothes  looked  white  as  snow.  I  shouldn't  hev 
been  ashamed  of  'em  myself. 

"  Aunt  Rebecca  looked  very  calm,  an'  I  don't  think  she'd 
ben  cryin'.  But  then  that  wa'n't  nothin'  to  go  by;  'twa'n't 
her  way.  I  don't  believe  she'd  a  cried  ef  it  had  been 
Abner  Lyons.  Though  I  don't  know,  maybe,  ef  she'd  mar 
ried  the  man  she'd  wanted,  she'd  cried  easier.  For  all  Aunt 
Rebecca  was  so  kind  an'  sympathizin'  to  other  folks,  she'd 
always  seemed  like  a  stone  'bout  her  own  troubles.  I 
don't  s'pose,  ef  the  barn  an'  house  had  both  burned  down, 
an'  left  her  without  a  roof  over  her  head,  she'd  'a  seemed 
any  different.  I  kin  see  her  now,  jest  as  she  looked,  settin' 
thar,  tellin'  me  the  story  that  would  hev  flustrated  any 
other  woman  most  to  death.  But  her  voice  was  jest  as 
low  an'  even,  an'  never  shook.  Her  hair  was  gray,  but  it 
was  kinder  crinkly,  an'  her  forehead  was  as  white  an'  smooth 
as  a  young  girl's. 

"Aunt  Rebecca's  troubles  always  stayed  in  her  heart,  I 
s'pose,  an'  never  pricked  through.  Except  for  her  gray 
hair,  she  never  looked  as  ef  she'd  had  one. 

"  She  never  took  on  any  more  when  she  went  to  the 
funeral,  for  they  buried  him  at  last,  poor  man.  He  had 
'most  as  hard  a  time  gittin'  buried  as  he  did  gittin'  mar 
ried.  I  couldn't  help  peekin'  round  to  see  ef  Abner  Lyons 
was  thar,  an'  he  was,  on  the  other  side  of  the  aisle  from  me. 
An'  he  was  lookin'  straight  at  Uncle  Enos's  coffin,  that 
stood  up  in  front  under  the  pulpit,  with  the  curiousest  ex 
pression  that  I  ever  did  see. 


146  ON  THE   WALPOLE  ROAD. 

"  He  didn't  look  glad  reely.  I  couldn't  say  he  did, 
but  all  I  could  think  of  was  a  man  who'd  been  runnin'  an' 
runnin'  to  get  to  a  place,  an'  at  length  had  got  in  sight 
of  it. 

"Maybe  'twas  dreadful  for  him  to  go  to  a  man's  funeral 
an'  look  that  way,  but  natur'  is  natur',  an'  I  always  felt 
somehow  that  ef  Uncle  Enos  chose  to  do  as  he  did  'twa'n't 
anythin'  more  than  he  ought  to  hev  expected  when  he  was 
dead. 

"  But  I  did  feel  awful  ashamed  an'  wicked,  thinkin'  of 
such  things,  with  the  poor  man  layin'  dead  before  me.  An' 
when  I  went  up  to  look  at  him,  layin'  thar  so  helpless,  I 
cried  like  a  baby.  Poor  Uncle  Enos !  it  ain't  for  us  to  be 
down  on  folks  after  everything's  all  over. 

"Well,  Aunt  Rebecca  married  Abner  Lyons  'bout  two 
years  after  Uncle  Enos  died,  an'  they  lived  together  jest 
five^years  an'  seven  months;  then  she  was  took  sudden 
with  cholera-morbus  from  eatin'  currants,  an'  died.  He 
lived  a  year  an'  a  half  or  so  longer,  an'  then  he  died  in  a 
kind  of  consumption. 

"  'Twa'n't  long  they  had  to  be  happy  together,  an'  some 
times  I  used  to  think  they  wa'n't  so  happy  after  all;  for 
thar's  no  mistake  about  it,  Abner  Lyons  was  awful  fussy. 
I  s'pose  his  livin'  alone  so  long  made  him  so;  but  I  don't 
believe  Aunt  Rebecca  ever  made  a  loaf  of  bread,  after  she 
was  married,  without  his  havin'  something  to  say  about  it; 
an'  ef  thar's  anything  that's  aggervatin'  to  a  woman,  it's 
havin'  a  man  fussin'  around  in  her  kitchen. 

"But  ef  Aunt  Rebecca  didn't  find  anything  just  as  she 
thought  it  was  goin'  to  be,  she  never  let  on  she  was  disap- 
p'inted. 

"I  declare,  Almiry,  thar's  the  house  in  sight,  an'  the 


ON  THE   WALPOLE  ROAD.  !47 

shower  has  gone  round  to  the  northeast,  an'  we  ain't  had  a 
speck  of  rain  to  lay  the  dust. 

"  WtU,  my  story's  gone  round  to  the  northeast  too.  Ain't 
you  tired  out  hearin'  me  talk,  Almiry  ?" 

"  No  indeed,  Mis'  Green,"  replied  Almira,  slapping  the 
reins  j  "  I  liked  to  hear  you,  only  it's  kind  of  come  to  me, 
as  I've  been  listening,  that  I  had  heard  it  before.  The  last 
time  I  took  you  to  Walpole,  I  guess,  you  told  it." 

"  Wa'al,  I  declare,  I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  I  did." 

Then  the  horse  turned  cautiously  around  the  corner,  and 
stopped  willingly  before  the  house. 


OLD  LADY  PING  REE. 

IT  was  almost  dark  at  half-past  four.  Nancy  Pingree 
stood  staring  out  at  one  of  her  front  windows.  Not  a  per 
son  was  passing  on  the  wide  country  road ;  not  one  came 
up  the  old  brick  walk  between  the  dry  phlox  bushes  to  the 
house. 

It  was  the  same  picture  out  there  which  the  old  woman 
had  looked  at  hundreds  of  times  before  in  winter  twilights 
like  this.  The  interest  in  it  had  died  away  with  the  expec 
tation  of  new  developments  in  it  which  she  had  had  in  her 
youth.  Nature  to  Nancy  Pingree  had  never  been  anything 
but  a  background  for  life. 

When  she  had  first  gone  to  the  window  she  had  said,  "  I 
wish  I  could  see  somebody  comin'  that  belonged  to  me." 

Then  she  simply  stood  thinking.  The  tall,  graceful,  leaf 
less  trees  arching  over  the  quiet  snowy  road,  and  the  glimpse 
of  clear  yellow  western  sky  through  them,  the  whole  land 
scape  before  her,  with  all  the  old  lights  of  her  life  shining 
on  it,  became  a  mirror  in  which  she  saw  herself  reflected. 

She  started  finally,  and  went  across  the  room  with  a  long 
shamble.  She  was  lame  in  one  hip  ;  but,  for  all  that,  there 
was  a  certain  poor  majesty  in  her  carriage.  Her  rusty  black 
dress  hung  in  straight  long  folds,  and  trailed  a  little.  She 
held  her  head  erect,  and  wore  an  odd  black  lace  turban. 


OLD  LADY  PINGREE.  !49 

She  had  made  the  turban  herself,  with  no  pattern.  It  was 
a  direct  outcome  of  her  own  individuality  ;  perched  on  the 
top  of  her  long  old  head  it  really  was — Nancy  Pingree. 

She  took  down  a  plaid  shawl  which  was  hanging  in  a 
little  side  entry,  pinned  it  over  her  head,  and  opened  the 
outer  door  into  the  clear  twilight.  Straight  from  the  door, 
on  this  side  of  the  old  house,  an  avenue  of  pine-trees  led  to 
a  hen-coop.  Whatever  majestic  idea  had  been  in  the  head 
of  Nancy's  grandfather,  Abraham  Pingree,  when  he  had 
set  out  these  trees,  it  had  come  to  this. 

Nancy  went  down  between  the  windy  pines,  over  the 
crusty  snow,  to  the  hen-coop.  She  came  back  with  two 
eggs  in  her  hand.  "  They've  done  pretty  well  to-day,"  said 
she  to  herself. 

When  she  was  in  the  house  again  she  stood  shivering 
for  a  little  while  over  her  sitting-room  air-tight  stove.  She 
still  held  the  eggs.  A  question  had  come  up,  the  answer 
to  which  was  costing  her  a  struggle. 

"Here's  two  eggs,"  said  she.  "I  could  have  one  biled 
for  supper  •  I  kinder  feel  the  need  of  it  too ;  I  ain't  had 
anything  hearty  to-day.  An'  I  could  have  the  other  one 
fried  with  a  little  slice  of  salt  pork  for  breakfast.  Seems  to 
me  I  should  reely  relish  it.  I  s'pose  Mis'  Stevens  would 
admire  to  have  an  egg  for  supper.  Jenny  ain't  had  any 
work  this  week,  an'  I  know  she  ain't  been  out  anywhere  to 
buy  anything  to-day.  I  should  think  her  mother  would 
actilly  go  faint  sometimes,  without  meat  an'  egg  an'  sech 
hearty  things.  She's  nothin'  but  skin  an'  bone  anyway. 
I've  a  good  mind  to  kerry  her  one  of  these  eggs.  I  would 
ef  I  didn't  feel  as  ef  I  reely  needed  it  myself." 

The  poor  soul  stood  there  looking  at  the  eggs.  Finally 
she  put  the  smaller  one  in  a  cupboard  beside  the  chimney, 


150  OLD  LADY  PING  REE. 

and  went  out  of  the  sitting-room  into  the  front  hall  with  the 
larger  one.  She  climbed  stiffly  up  the  stairs,  which  were 
fine  old  winding  ones.  Then  she  knocked  at  a  door  on 
the  landing. 

A  thin,  pretty -faced  young  woman  opened  it.  Nancy 
proffered  the  egg.  She  had  a  stately  manner  of  extending 
her  lean  arm. 

"  Here's  a  new-laid  egg  I  thought  your  mother  might  rel 
ish  for  her  supper,  Jenny,"  said  she. 

The  young  woman's  sharp,  pretty  face  grew  red.  "  Oh, 
thank  you,  Miss  Pingree ;  but  I — don't  think  mother  needs 
it.  I  am  afraid — you  will  rob  yourself." 

Nancy  held  her  wide  mouth  stiff,  only  opening  it  a  crack 
when  she  spoke.  "  I've  got  plenty  for  myself,  plenty.  I 
shouldn't  use  this  one  before  it  spiled,  mebbe,  ef  I  kep'  it. 
I  thought  p'rhaps  it  would  go  good  for  your  mother's  sup 
per  ;  but  you  can  do  just  as  you  like  about  takin'  it." 

The  young  woman  accepted  the  egg  with  reserved  thanks, 
then,  and  Nancy  went  stiffly  back  down-stairs. 

"I  guess  ef  Jenny  Stevens  hadn't  took  that  egg,  it  would 
have  been  the  last  thing  I'd  ever  offered  her,"  said  she,  when 
she  was  in  her  sitting-room.  "  I  don't  see  how  she  ever 
got  the  idea  she  seems  to  have  that  I'm  so  awful  poor." 

She  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea,  and  ate  a  slice  of  bread- 
and-butter  for  her  supper ;  she  had  resolved  to  save  her 
own  egg  until  morning.  Then  she  sat  down  for  the  evening 
with  her  knitting.  She  knitted  a  good  many  stockings  for 
a  friend's  family.  That  friend  came  in  at  the  side  door 
presently.  Nancy  heard  her  fumbling  about  in  the  entry, 
but  she  did  not  rise  until  the  sitting-room  door  opened. 

Then,  "Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mis'  Holmes,"  said  she, 
rising,  in  apparent  surprise. 


OLD  LADY  PING  REE.  !5l 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  thank  you,  Nancy.     How  do  you  do  ?" 

"  'Bout  as  usual.     Do  take  off  your  things  an'  set  down." 

The  visitor  had  a  prosperous  look  ;  she  was  richly  dressed 
to  country  eyes,  and  had  a  large,  masterly,  middle-aged 
face. 

"I  just  heard  some  sad  news,"  said  she,  laying  aside  her 
shawl. 

"You  don't  say  so  !" 

"  Old  Mrs.  Powers  was  found  dead  in  her  bed  this  morning." 

Nancy's  face  took  on  an  anxious  look ;  she  asked  many 
questions  about  the  sudden  death  of  Mrs.  Powers.  She 
kept  recurring  to  the  same  topic  all  the  evening.  "  Strange 
how  sudden  folks  go  nowadays,"  she  often  repeated. 

At  length,  just  before  Mrs.  Holmes  went,  she  stood  up 
with  an  air  of  resolution.  "Mis'  Holmes,"  said  she,  with  a 
solemn  tremor  in  her  voice,  "  I  wish  you'd  jest  step  in  here 
a  minute." 

Mrs.  Holmes  followed  her  into  her  bedroom,  which  opened 
out  of  the  sitting-room.  Nancy  pulled  out  the  bottom  draw 
er  in  a  tall  mahogany  bureau. 

"  Look  here,  Mis'  Holmes.  I've  been  thinkin'  of  it  over 
for  some  time,  an'  wantin'  to  speak  about  it ;  an'  hearin' 
old  Mis'  Powers  was  took  so  sudden,  makes  me  think  meb- 
be  I'd  better  not  put  it  off  any  longer.  In  case  anything 
happened  to  me,  you'd  probably  be  one  to  come  in  an'  see 
to  things,  an'  you'd  want  to  know  where  everything  was,  so 
you  could  put  your  hand  on  it.  Well,  all  the  clothes  you'd 
need  are  right  there,  folded  up  in  that  drawer.  An'  Mis' 
Holmes,  you'll  never  speak  of  this  to  anybody?" 

"  No,  I  won't." 

"  In  this  corner,  under  the  clothes,  you'll  find  the  money 
to  pay  for  my  buryin'.  I've  been  savin'  of  it  up,  a  few  cents 


'52 


OLD  LADY  PINGREE. 


at  a  time,  this  twenty  year.  I  calculate  there's  enough  for 
everythin'.  I  want  to  be  put  in  that  vacant  place  at  the  end 
of  the  Pingree  lot,  an'  have  a  flat  stone,  like  the  others,  you 
know.  If  I  leave  it  with  you,  you'll  see  that  it's  all  done 
right,  won't  you,  Mis'  Holmes?  I  feel  pretty  perticklar 
about  it.  I'm  the  last  of  the  hull  family,  you  know,  an'  they 
were  pretty  smart  folks.  It's  all  run  out  now.  I  ain't 
nothin',  but  I'd  kinder  like  to  have  my  buryin'  done  like  the 
others.  I  don't  want  it  done  by  the  town,  an'  I  don't  want 
nobody  to  give  it  to  me.  I  want  to  pay  for  it  with  my  own 
money.  You'll  see  to  it,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.  Everything  shall  be  done  just  as  you 
say,  if  I  have  anything  to  do  about  it." 

Mrs.  Holmes  was  rarely  shocked  or  painfully  touched  \ 
but  the  sight  of  that  poor  little  hoard  of  white  clothes  and 
burial  money  called  up  all  the  practical  kindness  in  her 
nature.  Every  one  of  Nancy's  wishes  would  be  faithfully 
carried  out  under  her  supervision. 

"  If  they  put  the  railroad  they're  talking  about  through 
here,  it'll  make  us  rich.  The  Deacon  says  it  will  go  through 
the  south  part  of  this  land.  We'd  have  enough  money  for 
burying  and  living  too,"  said  Mrs.  Holmes,  as  Nancy  shut 
and  locked  the  drawer. 

"  I  ain't  no  stock  in  the  railroad ;  all  the  money  would 
belong  to  the  Deacon  ef  it  was  put  through  this  land.  I've 
got  all  over  carin'  for  riches,  All  I  want  is  to  be  buried 
independent,  like  the  rest  of  my  folks." 

'l  How's  the  woman  up-stairs?"  asked  Mrs.  Holmes  when 
she  took  leave  finally.  She  had  three  pairs  of  Nancy's  fin 
ished  stockings  in  a  bundle. 

"  She's  pretty  poorly,  I  think.  She  keeps  me  awake 
'most  all  the  time." 


OLD   LADY  PING  REE.  ^ 

Nancy  did  not  go  farther  than  the  sitting-room  door  with 
her  departing  visitor.  When  she  had  heard  the  outer  door 
close  after  her,  she  went  swiftly  out  into  the  entry.  She 
held  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  and  peered  sharply  into  the 
corners. 

"  Yes,  she  did,"  said  she,  and  took  up  a  good-sized  cov 
ered  basket  from  behind  the  door  eagerly. 

She  carried  it  into  the  sitting-room,  and  opened  it;  it 
was  packed  with  eatables.  Done  up  in  a  little  parcel  at 
the  bottom  was  the  pay  for  the  three  pairs  of  stockings. 

This  was  the  code  of  etiquette,  which  had  to  be  strictly 
adhered  to,  in  the  matter  of  Nancy's  receiving  presents 
or  remuneration.  Gifts  or  presents  openly  proffered  her 
were  scornfully  rejected,  and  ignominiously  carried  back 
by  the  donor  Nancy  Pingree  was  a  proud  old  woman. 
People  called,  her  "  Old  Lady  Pingree."  She  had  not  a 
dollar  of  her  own  in  the  world,  except  her  little  hoard  of 
burial  money.  This  immense  old  mansion,  which  had  been 
the  outcome  of  the  ancient  prosperity  of  the  Pingrees,  was 
owned  entirely  by  Mrs.  Holmes's  husband,  through  fore 
closed  mortgages. 

"You'd  better  foreclose,  Deacon,"  Mrs.  Holmes  had  said, 
"  and  make  sure  you've  got  the  place  safe  in  your  own 
hands ;  an'  then  you'd  better  let  the  poor  old  lady  stay 
there  just  the  same  as  long  as  she  lives.  She  needn't  know 
any  difference." 

Nancy  did  know  a  difference.  Down  in  the  depths  of 
her  proud  old  heart  rankled  the  knowledge  that  an  outsider 
owned  the  home  of  her  fathers,  and  that  she  was  living  in 
it  on  toleration.  She  let  some  rooms  up-stairs,  and  received 
the  money  for  them  herself.  Mrs.  Holmes's  benevolence 
was  wide,  although  it  was  carefully  and  coolly  calculated. 


'54 


OLD  LADY  PINGREE. 


All  Nancy  had  to  live  on  was  the  rent  of  these  rooms,  be 
sides  the  small  proceeds  from  her  three  hens  and  her  knit 
ting,  and  neighborly  donations.  Some  days  she  had  not 
much  for  sustenance  except  her  pride.  She  was  over 
eighty. 

The  people  up-stairs  were  a  widow  and  daughter.  The 
mother,  after  an  absence  of  many  years  and  much  trouble, 
had  turned  back,  of  her  nature,  to  the  town  in  which  she 
had  been  born  and  brought  up.  AlMier  friends  were  gone 
now,  but  they  had  used  to  be  there.  So  they  came  and 
hired  rooms  of  Miss  Pingree,  and  Jenny  did  sewing  to  sup 
port  herself  and  her  mother.  She  was  a  good  daughter. 
They  had  a  hard  struggle  to  live.  Jenny  did  not  find  work 
very  plentiful ;  a  good  many  of  the  women  here  did  their 
own  sewing.  She  could  scarcely  pay  the  rent  of  fifty  cents 
per  week  and  buy  enough  to  eat.  Her  mother  was  sick 
now — in  consumption,  it  was  thought.  Jenny  did  not  re 
alize  it.  She  was  not  confined  to  her  bed. 

Jenny  came  down  and  knocked  at  Nancy's  door  the  next 
morning.  She  had  fifty  cents  in  her  hand,  with  which  to 
pay  the  rent.  She  always  paid  it  punctually  on  Saturday 
morning. 

Nancy  cast  a  glance  at  the  money.  "  How's  your  moth 
er?"  said  she.  "I  heerd  her  coughin'  a  good  deal  last 
night." 

"She  had  a  pretty  bad  night.  I'm  going  for  the  doctor. 
This  is  the  money  for  the  rent." 

"  Let  it  go." 

"Why,  I  owe  it.  I  can  pay  it  just  as  well  now  as  any 
time." 

"  I  don't  want  it  any  time.  I  don't  want  any  pay  for  this 
week.  I  don't  need  it.  I've  got  enough." 


OLD  LADY  PINGREE.  !55 

Jenny's  face  was  crimson.  "Thank  you,  but  I'd  rather 
pay  what  I  owe,  Miss  Pingree." 

"I  sha'n't  take  it." 

The  two  poor,  proud  souls  stood  confronting  each  other. 
Then  Jenny  laid  the  fifty  cents  on  the  window-seat.  "  You 
can  do  just  what  you've  a  mind  to  do  with  it,"  said  she. 
"  I  certainly  sha'n't  take  it  back.  Then  she  went  out  of 
the  room  quickly. 

"Strange  how  she  got  the  idea  I  was  so  awful  poor!" 
said  Nancy,  staring  at  the  money  resentfully.  "  I  won't 
tetch  it,  anyway.  She'll  see  it  layin'  there  next  time  she 
comes  in." 

The  next  time  poor  Jenny  came  in,  it  was  indeed  still  ly 
ing  there  on  the  window-seat,  a  scanty  pile  of  wealth  in  five 
and  ten  cent  pieces  and  coppers. 

But  Jenny  never  noticed  it ;  she  had  something  else  to 
think  of  then.  It  was  very  early  the  next  morning,  but  Miss 
Pingree  was  up,  kindling  the  fire  in  her  sitting-room  stove. 
Jenny  ran  right  in  without  knocking ;  she  had  a  shawl  over 
her  head.  "  Oh,  Miss  Pingree,"  she  cried,  "  can't  you  go 
up-stairs  to  mother  while  I  run  for  the  doctor  ?" 

Nancy  dropped  the  tongs,  and  stood  up.  "  Is  she — "  she 
began.  But  Jenny  was  gone.  When  the  doctor  came  there 
was  no  need  for  him.  Jenny's  mother  was  dead.  All  that 
was  required  now  was  the  aid  of  some  of  the  friendly, 
capable  women  neighbors.  Nancy  went  for  them,  and 
they  came  promptly,  Mrs.  Holmes  and  two  others. 

When  they  had  done  all  that  was  necessary  they  went 
home.  Shortly  afterwards  Jenny  came  into  Nancy's  room  ; 
she  had  on  her  shawl  and  hood.  She  had  been  very  calm 
through  it  all,  but  her  pretty  face  had  a  fierce,  strained 
look. 


156  OLD  LADY  PINGREE. 

"  Miss  Pingree,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "  who  are  the  select 
men  ?" 

"Why,  Deacon  Holmes  is  one.  What  do  you  want  to 
know  for?" 

"  I've  got  to  go  to  them.  The  town  will  have  to  bury 
mother." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Nancy,  with  two  sharp  notes,  one  of  pity, 
one  of  horror. 

Suddenly  at  that  Jenny's  forced  composure  gave  way ; 
she  sank  helplessly  into  a  chair,  and  began  to  half  sob,  half 
shriek.  "  Oh,  mother  !  mother  !  mother  !  poor  mother  ! 
To  think  it  has  come  to  this  !  To  think  you  must  be  buried 
by  the  town.  What  would  you  have  said  ?  It's  the  worst 
of  all.  Poor  mother  !  poor  mother  !  oh,  poor  mother." 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  money?" 

"  No.     Oh,  mother !" 

"An'  there  ain't  any  of  your  folks  that  could  help  you  ?" 

"We  didn't  have  any  folks." 

Then  she  kept  on  with  her  cries  and  moans.  Nancy 
stood  motionless.  There  is  no  knowing  what  a  clash  of 
spiritual  armies  with  trumpets  and  banners  there  was  in  her 
brave  old  heart ;  but  not  a  line  of  her  face  moved ;  she 
hardly  breathed. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Jenny." 

Nancy  went  into  her  bedroom  and  unlocked  the  lowest 
drawer  in  the  bureau.  She  took  out  all  of  her  little  hoard 
of  money  except  a  few  cents.  She  limped  majestically 
across  the  sitting-room  to  Jenny. 

"  Here,  child  ;  there  ain't  any  need  of  your  goin'  to  the 
town.  I've  got  some  money  here  that  I  can  let  you  have 
jest  as  well  as  not." 

"  Miss  Pingree  !" 


OLD  LADY  PING  REE.  ^7 

"Here." 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  mean  ?  How  can  I  take  it  ?  What 
will  you  do  ?" 

"I  shall  do  well  enough.  This  ain't  all ;  I've  got  some 
more." 

When  all  of  Jenny's  proud  scruples  which  this  terrible 
emergency  had  left  her  had  been  subdued,  and  she  had  gone, 
Nancy  took  up  the  fifty  cents  on  the  window-seat. 

"  Guess  she's  took  this  now,  an'  more  too,"  said  she,  with 
an  odd  tone  of  satisfaction.  Even  now,  in  her  splendid  self- 
sacrifice,  there  was  a  little  leaven  of  pride.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  fact  that  it  gave  her  some  comfort  in  this 
harsh  charity,  which  was  almost  like  giving  a  piece  of  her 
own  heart.  She  inspected  the  neat  appointments  of  poor 
Mrs,  Stevens's  funeral  with  feelings  not  wholly  of  grief  at 
her  own  deprivation  of  similar  honors,  nor  yet  of  honest  be 
nevolence.  There  was  a  grand  though  half-smothered  con 
sciousness  of  her  own  giving  in  her  heart.  She  felt  for  her 
self  the  respect  which  she  would  have  felt  for  an  old  Pin- 
gree  in  his  palmiest  days. 

As  time  went  on  she  lost  this,  however;  then  the  humili 
ating  consciousness  of  her  own  condition  came  uppermost. 
She  dreaded  to  tell  Mrs.  Holmes  of  the  change  in  her  re 
sources,  and  now  no  vanity  over  her  own  benevolence  ren 
dered  the  task  easier.  She  simply  felt  intense  humiliation 
at  having  to  confess  her  loss  of  independence. 

However,  she  never  regretted  what  she  had  done.  She 
grew  very  fond  of  Jenny ;  indeed,  the  two  had  much  in  com 
mon.  They  generally  ate  their  simple  meals  together. 
Jenny  had  plenty  of  work  to  do  now ;  Mrs.  Holmes  gave 
her  a  great  deal  of  sewing.  She  often  told  Nancy  how  she 
was  saving  up  money  to  pay  her  debt ;  she  never  suspected 
ii 


158  OLD  LADY  PING  REE. 

the  real  state  of  the  case.  She  had  taken  to  thinking  that 
Miss  Pingree  must  have  wider  resources  than  she  had 
known. 

Nancy  would  have  died  rather  than  let  her  know  of  the 
meagre  sum  in  that  consecrated  corner  of  the  bureau  draw 
er.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes  that  she  would  rather  die 
than  have  Mrs.  Holmes  know,  but  that  was  necessary. 
Suppose  she  should  be  taken  away  suddenly,  what  surprise, 
and  perhaps  even  distrust,  would  be  occasioned  by  the  scan 
tiness  of  the  burial  hoard  !  However,  she  had  not  told  her 
when  spring  came. 

At  length,  she  set  out  after  tea  one  night.  She  had  re 
solved  to  put  it  off  no  longer. 

The  cemetery  was  on  the  way.  She  lingered  and  looked 
in.  Finally  she  entered. 

"  I'll  jest  look  around  a  minute,"  said  she.  "  I  dare  say 
Mis'  Holmes  ain't  through  supper." 

The  Pingree  lot  was  almost  in  sight  from  the  street.  Nancy 
went  straight  there.  The  cemetery  was  itself  a  spring  gar 
den,  blue  and  white  with  Houstonias  and  violets.  The  old 
graves  were  green,  and  many  little  bushes  were  flowering 
around  them.  The  gold-green  leaf-buds  on  the  weeping- 
willows  were  unfolding. 

The  Pingree  lot,  however,  partook  of  none  of  the  general 
lightness  and  loveliness.  No  blessing  of  spring  had  fallen 
on  that  long  rank  of  dead  Pingrees.  There  they  lay,  in  the 
order  of  their  deaths,  men  and  women  and  children,  each 
covered  with  a  flat  white  stone  above  the  grave  mould. 

Tall,  thickly-set  evergreen  trees  fenced  in  closely  the  line 
of  graves.  In  the  midst  of  the  cemetery,  where  gloom  was 
now  rendered  tender  by  the  infinite  promise  of  the  spring, 
the  whole  was  a  ghastly  parallelogram  of  hopeless  death. 


OLD  LADY  PING  REE.  ^9 

Nancy  Pingree,  looking  through  the  narrow  entrance  gap 
in  the  evergreens  on  the  dark,  tomb-like  enclosure,  had, 
however,  no  such  impression.  She  regarded  this  as  the 
most  attractive  lot  in  the  cemetery.  Its  singularity  had 
been  in  subtle  accordance  with  the  Pingree  character,  and 
she  was  a  Pingree.  At  one  end  of  the  long  row  of  pros 
trate  stones  there  was  a  vacant  place  :  enough  for  an 
other. 

Nancy  began  with  this  topic  when  she  was  seated,  a  little 
later,  in  Mrs.  Holmes's  Brussels-carpeted, velvet-upholstered 
parlor.  "  I  looked  in  the  graveyard  a  minute  on  my  way 
here,"  said  she,  "  an'  went  over  to  the  Pingree  lot.  I'd  allers 
calculated  to  have  a  stone  like  the  others  when  I  was  laid 
at  the  end  there  :  but  now  I  don'  know.  You  remember 
that  money  I  showed  you,  Mis'  Holmes  ?  Well,  it  ain't 
there  now ;  I've  had  to  use  it.  I  thought  I'd  better  tell 
you,  in  case  you  wouldn't  know  what  to  make  of  it,  if  any 
thing  happened." 

Mrs.  Holmes  stared  at  her,  with  a  look  first  of  amaze 
ment,  then  of  intelligence.  "  Nancy  Pingree,  you  gave  the 
money  to  bury  that  woman  up-stairs." 

"Hush!  don't  you  say  anything  about  it,  Mis'  Holmes. 
Jenny  don't  know  the  hull  of  it.  She  took  on  so,  I  couldn't 
help  it.  It  come  over  me  that  I  hadn't  got  anybody  to  feel 
bad  ef  I  was  buried  by  the  town,  an'  it  wouldn't  make  so 
much  difference." 

"  How  much  money  was  there  ?" 

"  Eighty  dollars,"  said  Nancy,  with  the  tone  in  which  she 
would  have  said  a  million. 

Mrs.  Holmes  was  a  woman  who  was  seldom  governed  by 
hasty  impulse ;  but  she  was  now.  She  disregarded  the 
strict  regulations  attached  to  giving  in  Nancy's  case,  and 


160  OLD  LADY  PINGREE. 

boldly  offered  to  replace  the  money  out  of  her  own  pocket. 
She  could  well  afford  to  do  it. 

Nancy  looked  majestic  with  resentment.  "No,"  said 
she.  "  If  it's  got  to  be  done  by  anybody,  I'd  enough 
sight  rather  'twould  be  done  by  the  town.  The  Pingrees 
have  paid  taxes  enough  in  times  gone  by  to  make  it 
nothin'  more'n  fair,  after  all.  Thank  you,  Mis'  Holmes, 
but  I  ain't  quite  come  to  takin'  money  out  an'  out  from 
folks  yet." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings." 

"  I  know  you  didn't,  Mis'  Holmes.  You  meant  it  kind 
enough.  We  won't  say  no  more  about  it." 

"  Don't  you  believe  Jenny  will  be  able  to  pay  you  back, 
some  time?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  says  she's  goin'  to,  an'  I  know  she 
means  to — she's  awful  proud.  But  she  can't  save  up  much, 
poor  child,  an'  I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  I  died  first.  Well, 
never  mind.  How's  the  Deacon  ?" 

"  He's  well,  thank  you.  He's  gone  to  the  railroad  meet 
ing.  Somebody  was  telling  me  the  other  day  that  Benny 
Field  was  waiting  on  Jenny." 

"Well,  I  believe  he's  come  home  with  her  from  meetin' 
some  lately ;  but  I  don't  know." 

When  Nancy  reached  home  that  night  she  wondered 
if  Benny  Field  were  not  really  "  waiting  on  Jenny."  She 
found  him  sitting  with  her  on  tfie  front  door-step. 

Before  long  she  knew  that  he  was.  Jenny  came  to  her 
one  afternoon  and  told  her  she  was  going  to  marry  Benny 
Field.  Nancy  had  previously  received  another  piece  of  in 
telligence  on  the  same  day. 

Early  that  morning  Mrs.  Holmes  had  come  over  with  an 
important  look  on  her  face,  and  announced  to  Nancy  that 


OLD  LADY  PINGREE.  X6i 

the  new  railroad  was  indeed  going  to  be  laid  through  the 
Pingree  land. 

"  They  are  going  to  build  the  depot  down  on  the  corner 
too,"  said  she;  "and — the  Deacon  thinks,  seeing  the  prop 
erty  has  come  up  so  much  in  value,  that  it  isn't  any  more'n 
fair  that — he  should  make  you  a  little  present." 

"  I  don't  want  any  present." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  put  it  that  way.  It  isn't  a  pres 
ent.  It's  no  more  than  your  just  due.  I  don't  think  the 
Deacon  would  ever  feel  just  right  in  his  conscience  if  he 
didn't  pay  you  a  little  something.  You  know  the  property 
wasn't  considered  worth  so  much  when  he  foreclosed." 

"  How  much  did  he  think  of  payin'." 

"  I  believe  he  said — about  two  hundred  dollars." 

"  Two  hundred  dollars  !" 

Nancy  had  been  full  of  the  bliss  of  it  all  day,  but  she  had 
said  nothing  about  it  to  Jenny. 

When  the  girl  told  her  she  was  going  to  be  married, 
Nancy  looked  at  her  half  in  awe. 

"Well,  I  am  glad,  I'm  sure,"  said  she,  finally.  "I  hope 
you'll  be  happy  ef  you  reely  think  it's  a  wise  thing  to  do  to 
git  married."  Her  tone  was  almost  shamefaced.  This  old 
woman,  who  had  never  had  a  lover,  regarded  this  young 
woman  with  awe,  half  as  if  she  had  stepped  on  to  another 
level,  where  it  would  be  indecorous  for  her  to  follow  even 
in  thought. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  happy,"  said  Jenny.  "  I  never  thought 
anything  of  this  kind  would  happen  to  me.  There's  one 
thing,  Miss  Pingree :  I  wouldn't  think  of  getting  married, 
I'd  never  consent  to  getting  married,  if  I  didn't  think  I 
could  pay  up  what  I  owe  you,  if  anything,  quicker.  Benny 
says  (I've  told  him  about  it;  I  said  at  first  I  wouldn't  get 


!62  OLD  LADY  PINGREE. 

married  anyway  till  you  were  paid)  that  I  shall  have  a  sew 
ing-machine,  and  I  can  have  some  help,  and  set  up  a  little 
dressmaking  shop.  I  ain't  going  to  buy  a  single  new  thing 
to  wear  when  I  get  married.  I  told  him  I  wasn't.  I've 
got  a  little  money  for  you  now,  Miss  Pingree." 

"  Oh,"  said  Nancy,  looking  at  her  with  the  ecstatic  con 
sciousness  of  her  new  wealth  in  her  heart,  "  I  don't  want  it, 
child,  ever.  I'm  glad  I  could  do  it  for  your  poor  mother. 
I've  got  plenty  of  money.  I  wish  you'd  keep  this  an'  buy 
yourself  some  weddin'  things  with  it.5> 

Even  Jenny's  pride  was  softened  by  her  happiness.  She 
looked  up  at  Miss  Pingree  gratefully ;  she  would  have  put 
her  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her  had  Miss  Pingree  been 
a  woman  to  caress  and  she  herself  given  to  caresses.  "You 
are  real  good  to  me,"  said  she,  "  and  you  were  good  to 
mother.  I  do  thank  you ;  but — I  should  never  take  a  bit 
of  comfort  in  a  new  dress  until  I  had  paid  you  every  dollar 
of  that  money." 

There  was  a  beautiful  clear  sunset  that  night.  Nancy 
Pingree  sat  looking  over  at  it  from  her  sitting-room  window. 
All  her  heart  was  full  of  a  sweet,  almost  rapturous  peace. 
She  had  had  a  bare,  hard  life ;  and  now  the  one  earthly 
ambition,  pitiful  and  melancholy  as  it  seemed,  which  had 
kept  its  living  fire  was  gratified. 

And  perhaps  that  independent  burial  in  the  vacant  cor 
ner  of  the  ghastly  Pingree  lot  meant  more  than  itself  to  this 
old  woman,  whose  great  unselfishness  had  exalted  her  over 
her  almost  cowardly  pride. 

Perhaps  she  caught  through  it  more  strongly  at  the  only 
real  prospect  of  delight  which  all  existence  could  hold  for 
one  like  her.  Perhaps  she  saw  through  it,  by  her  own 
homely  light,  the  Innocent  City  and  the  Angel-people,  and 


OLD  LADY  PINGREE.  ^3 

the  Sweet  Green  Pastures  and  Gentle  Flocks  and  Still  Wa 
ters,  and  herself  changed  somehow  into  something  beauti 
ful.  Perhaps  the  grosser  ambition  held  the  finer  one  with 
its  wings. 

As  she  sat  there,  Benny  Field  came  to  the  door  for  Jen 
ny.  They  were  going  to  walk. 

Nancy  watched  them  as  they  went  down  the  path.  "  I 
wonder,"  said  she,  "  if  they  are  any  happier  thinkin'  about 
gettin'  married  than  I  am  thinkin'  about  gettin'  buried?" 


CINNAMON  ROSES. 

THE  cottage  house  had  been  painted  white,  but  the  paint 
was  now  only  a  film  in  some  places.  One  could  see  the 
gray  wood  through  it.  The  establishment  had  a  generally 
declining  look;  the  shingles  were  scaling  from  the  roof,  the 
fences  were  leaning.  All  the  bit  of  newness  and  smartness 
about  it  was  the  front  door.  That  was  painted  a  bright 
blue. 

Cinnamon  rose-bushes  grew  in  the  square  front  yard. 
They  were  full  of  their  little,  sweet,  ragged  roses  now.  With 
their  silent,  lowly  persistency  they  had  overrun  the  whole 
yard.  There  was  no  stepping-room  between  them.  They 
formed  a  green  bank  against  the  house  walls ;  their  branches 
reached  droopingly  across  the  front  walk,  and  pushed  through 
the  fence.  Children  on  the  sidewalk  could  pick  the  roses. 

Four  men  coming  up  the  street  with  a  business  air  looked 
hesitatingly  at  this  rose -crowded  front  yard  when  they 
neared  it. 

"Thar  ain't  no  use  goin'  in  thar  into  thaUmess  of  prick 
ly  roses,"  said  one — a  large  man  with  a  happy  smile  and 
swagger. 

"  We  are  obliged  by  law  to  have  the  sale  on  the  premi 
ses,"  remarked  another,  blandly  and  authoritatively.  He 
was  a  light-whiskered  young  fellow,  who  wore  better  clothes 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  l6 

than  the  others,  and  held  a  large  roll  of  papers  ostenta 
tiously. 

"Come  round  to  the  side  of  the  house,  then,"  spoke  an 
other,  with  low  gruffness.  He  was  a  man  of  fifty.  He  had 
a  lean,  sinewy  figure,  and  a  severe,  sharp-featured  face.  His 
skin  was  dark  reddish-brown  from  exposure  to  the  sun. 

So  the  four  filed  around  into  the  side  yard,  with  its  short 
grass  and  its  well  and  well-sweep.  Here  a  red  flag  was 
blowing,  fastened  to  a  cherry-tree.  The  men  stood  to 
gether^  close  consultation,  the  light-whiskered  young  man, 
who  was  aVjvyer,  being  chief  spokesman.  • 

"We  may  as  veil  begin,"  he  said,  finally,  standing  off 
from  the  others.  "'!«>  hour  has  passed;  no  one  else  is 
likely  to  come." 

Then  they  took  their  places  with  a  b^-,.  .r  ceremon  

the  large  man,  who  now  held  the  roll  of  pape^,  ^--..ale 
aloof,  the  lawyer,  and  the  fourth  man,  who  was  old,  and  had 
a  stupid,  anxious  face,  at  one  side,  and  the  man  with  the 
severe,  red  face,  leaning  carelessly  against  the  cherry-tree. 

The  large  man  began  to  read  in  a  loud  voice.  As  he 
did  so,  a  loud  wail  came  from  the  house.  He  stopped 
reading,  arid  all  turned  their  faces  towards  it. 

"  Oh  dear !"  they  heard  distinctly,  in  a  shrill,  weak,  wom 
anish  voice,  with  an  unnatural  strain  on  it — "  oh  dear  !  oh 
dear  me  !  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  dear  me  !"  Then  followed 
loud  hysterical  sobs;  then  the  voice  kept  on:  "Oh,  father, 
what  made  you  leave  me  ? — what  made  you  die  an'  leave 
me  ?  I  wa'n't  fit  to  be  left  alone.  Oh,  father  !  oh,  mother  ! 
oh,  Luciny  !  I  'ain't  got  anybody — I  'ain't,  not  anybody. 
Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  me  !  dear  me  !" 

"  I  heard  she  took  on  awfully  'bout  it,"  said  the  auc 
tioneer. 


I(56  CINNAMON  ROSES. 

"  Well,  you  might  as  well  go  on,"  said  the  lawyer ;  "  duty 
has  to  be  performed,  no  matter  how  unpleasant." 

"  That's  so,"  assented  the  auctioneer.  Then  he  pro 
ceeded,  trying  to  drown  out  these  distressing  cries  with  his 
powerful  utterance.  But  the  cries  rang  through  and  above 
it  always.  He  kept  on  smilingly;  it  was  the  lawyer  who 
grew  impatient. 

"For  God's  sake,"  cried  he,  "can't  something  be  done 

to  stop  that  woman  ?    Why  didn't  somebody  take  her  away  ?' 

"  I  guess  her  brother's  wife  is  in  thar  with  her ;  JYnought 

I  see  her  at  the  window  a  minute  ago,"  said  thf  auctioneer, 

coming  down  from  his  high  hill  of  declamation. 

"  Well,  go  on  quickly,  and  have  rbne  with  it,"  said  the 
lawyer.     "  This  is  awful." 

The  man  at  th°  r^^y-tree  kept  clinching  his  hands,  but 


The  auctioneer  resumed  his  reading  of  the  long  state 
ment  of  the  conditions  of  the  sale,  then  the  bidding  began. 
That  was  soon  over,  since  there  were  only  two  bidders. 
The  old  man,  who  held  the  mortgage,  which  had  been  fore 
closed,  bid  with  nervous  promptness  the  exact  amount  of 
his  claim.  Then  the  man  at  the  cherry-tree  made  a  bid  of 
a  few  dollars  more,  and  he  was  pronounced  the  purchaser. 

"Going,  going — gone!"  said  the  auctioneer,  "to  William 
Havers." 

William  Havers  lingered  about  his  new  estate  until  the 
others  had  departed,  which  they  did  as  soon  as  the  neces 
sary  arrangements  were  completed.  They  wanted  to  be 
out  of  hearing  of  those  sad  cries  and  complaints. 

Havers  strolled  out  to  the  road  with  them.  When  he 
saw  them  fairly  started,  he  went  swiftly  back  to  the  house, 
to  the  side  door. 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  167 

He  knocked  cautiously.  Directly  the  cries  broke  out 
louder  and  shriller.  "  They've  come  to  order  me  out.  Oh 
dear  !  oh  clear  !  dear  !  dear  !  They've  come  to  order  me 
out — they  hev,  they  hev  !" 

Steps  approached  the  door  swiftly ;  it  opened,  and  a 
woman  appeared.  She  looked  pale  and  troubled,  but  she 
was  not  the  one  in  such  bitter  distress,  for  the  cries  still 
sounded  from  the  interior  of  the  house. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Havers  ?"  said  the  woman,  with 
grave  formality. 

"  Can  I  see  her  a  minute  ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"  Elsie  ?  I  don't  know.  She's  takin'  on  dreadfully.  She 
ain't  f\i  to  see  anybody.  I'm  afraid  she  wouldn't." 

"  If  she'd  only  see  me  a  minute.  I've  got  something  I 
want  to  say  particular." 

"  Well,  I'll  see." 

She  disappeared,  and  directly  the  voice,  which  had  been 
a  little  more  subdued,  waxed  louder. 

"  No,  I  won't  see  him  ;  I  won't ;  I  can't.  I  won't  see 
anybody.  I  never  want  to  see  anybody  again  as  long  as  I 
live.  Oh  dear  !  dear  !" 

"  It  ain't  any  use,"  said  the  woman,  coming  back.  "  She 
ain't  fit  to  see  anybody ;  she's  'most  crazy.  She  don't 
know  what  she's  sayin',  anyhow." 

"  Then  you  tell  her — you  go  right  in  an'  tell  her  now — 
she  kin  stay  here.  It  don't  make  any  odds  about  my  buyin' 
the  place  ;  I  won't  live  here.  She  kin  keep  right  on  stayin' 
here  jest  the  same." 

A  door  opened  suddenly,  and  another  woman  appeared. 
She  was  a  pitiful  sight.  She  had  a  little,  slim,  bony  figure, 
which  seemed  to  tremble  in  every  joint.  Every  line  in  her 
small  face  wavered  and  quivered;  her  blue  eyes  were  wa- 


1 68  CINNAMON  ROSES. 

tery  and  bloodshot;  her  skin  all  blotched  and  stained  with 
tears.  She  was  so  disfigured  by  grief  that  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  judge  of  her  natural  appearance.  She  would  have 
been  hideous,  had  not  her  smallness  and  frailty  in  her  dis 
tress  made  her  piteous. 

Now,  however,  something  besides  sorrow  seemed  to  move 
her.  She  was  all  alive  with  a  strange,  impotent  wrath,  which 
was  directed  against  William  Havers. 

She  clinched  her  red,  bony  hands  ;  her  poor  eyes  flashed 
with  indignation,  though  the  force  of  it  was  lost  through 
their  tearful  weakness. 

"  I  guess  I  won't  keep  on  stayin'  here,"  she  snapped,  in 
her  thin,  hoarse  voice.  "  I  guess  I  won't.  You  needn't 
offer  me  a  home.  I've  got  one  pervided.  I  ain't  quite 
destitute  yet.  You  needn't  think  you're  goin'  to  come 
round  now  an'  smooth  matters  over.  I  know  why  you've 
done  it.  You  can't  blind  me.  You've  been  watchin'  all 
the  time  for  a  chance  to  pay  us  back." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  means,"  said  Havers,  helpless 
ly,  to  the  other  woman. 

"  She  don't  know  neither.     She's  'most  beside  herself." 

Havers  began  again,  trying  to  speak  soothingly :  "  Now 
don't  you  go  to  feelin'  so,  Miss  Mills.  You  'ain't  got  to 
leave.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  live  here  myself  anyway.  I'm 
goin'—" 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  here  another  night.  I  ain't  goin' 
to  be  livin'  on  you.  I  guess  you'll  find  out.  Oh,  Luciny, 
what  would  you  have  said  if  you'd  knowed  what  was  comin' 
twenty  year  ago  !  Oh  dear  !  dear !" 

The  other  woman  took  her  by  the  shoulders.  "  Now, 
Elsie,  you've  got  to  walk  right  in  an'  stop  this.  You  ain't 
talkin'  with  any  reason.  You'll  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
when  you  come  to." 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  ^9 

She  walked  her  forcibly  out  of  the  entry,  and  shut  the 
door.  Then  she  turned  ,to  Havers. 

"  You  mustn't  mind  what  she  says,"  said  she.  "  She's 
been  about  as  near  crazy  as  anybody  can  be,  and  not  be, 
all  day." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  kin  mean  by  my  tryin'  to  pay 
her  back,  Mis'  Wing." 

"  Lor',  she  don't  know  herself.  She's  got  kind  ,of  a  no 
tion  that  you're  to  blame  for  buyin'  the  place.  She'll  know 
better  to-morrow." 

"  It's  a  good  deal  better  for  me  to  buy  it  than  Steadman," 
said  Havers,  with  a  troubled  look.  "I  shall  let  her  keep 
right  on  here.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  bought  the  place  more 
fur—" 

"  You're  a  real  good  man,"  said  Mrs.  Wing,  warmly. 
She  was  Elsie  Mills's  brother's  wife.  "  She'll  be  ashamed 
of  herself  to-morrow.  But  she's  comin'  to  live  with  Silas 
an'  me.  She's  welcome  to  a  home  with  us  jest  as  long  as 
she  lives.  She  ain't  fit  to  live  alone  anyway.  We  knew 
when  her  father  died  that  she'd  run  the  place  out  in  no 
time.  Well,  she's  takin'  on  so,  I  shall  have  to  go  in.  I 
don't  like  to  leave  her  a  minute.  Don't  you  mind  anything 
she  said." 

Contrary  to  Mrs.  Wing's  expectations,  Elsie  Mills  was 
not  disposed  to  retract  her  words.  The  next  day,  when 
she  was  peacefully  domiciled  in  her  brothers  house,  and 
seemed  a  little  calmer,  her  sister-in-law  opened  on  the  sub 
ject. 

"  What  in  creation  made  you  talk  so  to  William  Havers 
last  night?"  said  she.  "Not  one  man  in  a  hundred  would 
have  made  you  the  offer  that  he  did  after  he'd  bought  a 
place." 


1 7o  CINNAMON  ROSES. 

Elsie  fired  up  at  once.  "  I  guess  I  know  why,"  said  she. 
"  Luciny  gave  him  the  mitten  once — that's  why.  He's 
doin'  it  to  show  out." 

"  Why,  Elsie  Mills,  are  you  in  your  right  mind  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  He  acted  awful  cut  up.  He  never  got 
over  it.  He  always  meant  to  pay  us  back.  Now  he's 
bought  the  place  an'  invited  me  to  live  on  him,  he'll  feel 
better." 

"  Well,  I  never  !" 

Mrs.  Wing  repeated  the  conversation  to  her  husband, 
and  told  him  that  she  was  really  scared  about  Elsie :  she 
did  not  act  with  any  reason. 

Silas  Wing  laughed.  "  Don't  you  worry,  Maria,"  said  he. 
"  Elsie  always  had  that  notion.  I  never  really  believed 
that  Luciny  give  Havers  the  mitten,  myself;  but  she  did, 
an'  she  always  went  on  the  notion  that  he  was  dreadful  up 
set  over  it.  Elsie's  queer.  She's  mighty  meek  an'  yieldin' 
generally ;  she  seems  to  be  kinder  goin'  sideways  at  things 
fur  the  most  part ;  but  if  she  ever  does  git  p'inted  straight 
at  anything,  thar  ain't  no  turnin'  her." 

"  Do  you  remember  anything  about  William  Havers 
waitin'  on  Luciny  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  was  round  some  two  years  before  she  died. 
I  didn't  think  much  about  it.  Luciny  was  always  havin' 
beaux.  An'  no  wonder;  thar  wa'n't  many  girls  like  her. 
Lord  !  I  kin  see  her  now,  jest  how  she  used  to  look.  Poor 
Elsie  wa'n't  much  beside  her,  but  I  don't  believe  she  ever 
give  that  a  thought.  She  thought  Luciny  was  beautiful,  an' 
thar  wa'n't  anything  too  good  fur  her.  She'd  slave  herself 
'most  to  death  to  save  her.  No;  don't  you  worry,  Maria. 
Elsie's  always  run  on  that  notion." 

Silas  Wing  was  Elsie  Mills's  half-brother ;  the  dead  Lu- 


CINNAMON  ROSES. 


171 


cina  had  been  her  own  sister.  The  house  which  had  just 
been  sold  was  her  inheritance  from  her  father. 

Silas  Wing  was  an  easy,  prosperous  man,  with  a  shrewd 
.streak  in  his  character.  His  sister's  property  was  sadly 
deteriorated,  and  a  poor  investment.  He  had  no  idea  of 
sinking  money  to  secure  it  for  her,  but  he  was  perfectly  will 
ing  to  provide  for  her,  and  gave  her  a  most  cordial  invita 
tion  to  his  home. 

He  gave  her  a  front  chamber  in  his  large,  square  white 
house,  and  furnished  it  with  her  own  things,  to  make  it  seem 
like  home. 

"  Thar  ain't  any  reason  why  Elsie  shouldn't  be  as  happy  as 
a  queen  here  as  long  as  she  lives,"  he  told  his  wife.  "  Thar 
ain't  many  women  fare  any  better.  She  ain't  much  over 
forty.  She'd  hev  to  work,  hard  if  she  was  in  some  places, 
an'  she  ain't  fit  to.  Now  she'll  jest  hev  to  help  you  round 
a  little,  an'  live  jest  as  comfortable  as  can  be." 

Elsie's  chamber  commanded  a  good  view  of  her  old  home, 
which  was  a  little  farther  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  She  could  see  the  yard  full  of  cinnamon  roses,  and 
the  blue  front  door,  which  stood  out  bravely.  That  blue 
door  was  due  to  her  ;  she  had  painted  it  herself.  Silas  had 
some  blue  paint  left  after  painting  his  farm  wagon,  and  she 
had  begged  it.  Then  she  had  stood  on  a  chair — a  small, 
lean  figure  in  clinging  calico — and  plastered  the  brilliant 
blue  thickly  over  the  front  door,  wielding  the  brush  stiffly  in 
her  little  knotty  hand,  stretching  herself  up  on  her  slight, 
long  limbs. 

She  had  always  viewed  the  effect  with  innocent  delight. 
The  unusualness  of  a  blue  front  door  did  not  trouble  her. 
She  was  as  crude  and  original  as  a  child  in  her  tastes.  It 
looked  bright  and  fresh  in  itself,  and  to  her  thinking  re- 


!72  CINNAMON  ROSES. 

lieved  the  worn  look  of  the  house.  She  would  have  painted 
farther  had  her  paint  lasted.  After  the  door  was  painted 
blue,  she  had  held  up  her  head  better  under  a  neighbor's 
insinuation  that  the  house  was  "  run  down."  That,  indeed, 
had  led  her  to  do  it. 

Now  she  sat  forlornly  at  her  chamber  window,  her  elbows 
on  the  sill,  her  sharp  chin  in  her  hands,  for  many  an  hour, 
staring  over  at  the  blue  door  and  the  cinnamon  roses,  as 
she  might  have  stared  at  lost  jewels.  Nothing  about  the 
place  seemed  so  distinctly  her  own  as  that  blue  door ;  noth 
ing  seemed  so  dear  as  those  cinnamon  roses,  because  her 
dead  sister  Lucina  had  planted  them.  It  is  sad  work  look 
ing  at  things  that  were  once  one's  own,  when  they  have  not 
been  given  away  for  love,  and  one  still  wants  them.  Elsie 
was  meekly  unhappy  over  it.  She  was  no  longer  violent 
and  openly  despairing,  as  she  had  been  at  first.  That  had 
been  very  unusual  with  her.  She  was  fond  of  her  brother 
and  his  wife,  and  conformed  gently  to  all  the  requirements 
of  her  new  life.  She  had  very  little  enduring  resistance*  to 
circumstances  in  her;  she  did  not  kick  against  the  pricks. 
Still  she  lay  close  to  them,  and  was  tender  enough  to  be 
cruelly  stung  by  them. 

She  grew  old,  and  her  friends  noticed  it. 

"  It  ain't  any  use,"  Mrs.  Wing  told  her  husband :  "  Elsie 
ain't  never  goin'  to  be  the  same  as  she  was  before  she  lost 
her  house.  She's  grown  ten  years  older  in  a  week." 

"  She's  a  silly  girl ;  that's  all  I've  got  to  say,"  replied 
Silas  Wing. 

One  evening  Elsie,  at  her  open  chamber  window,  over 
heard  a  conversation  between  her  brother  and  his  wife. 
They  were  sitting  on  the  doorstep. 

"  Havers  came  over  to-night,"  said  Silas.     "  I  see  him 


CINNAMON'  ROSES.  j^ 

out  at  the  gate  as  I  come  along.  He's  goin'  to  let  his 
other  house  and  Jive  here,  he  says.  I  declare  I'd  hardly 
think  .he'd  want  to,  this  rs  so  much  further  from  town. 
But  the  other'll  let  better,  I  s'pose.  Reckon  that's  the 
reason." 

"  Is  he  goin'  to  fix  this  one  up  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wing. 

"Yes;  he's  goin'  to  paint  it  up  some,  an'  hev  the  roof 
shingled.  He  was  kinder  laughin'  about  that  blue  door, 
but  he  didn't  seem  to  think  he'd  hev  it  altered  afterwards. 
I  told  him  how  poor  Elsie  painted  it  herself." 

"  Lord !  I  shouldn't  think  he'd  want  to  keep  that  blue 
door." 

"He  seemed  to  think  it  wouldn't  look  bad  if  the  house 
was  painted  new  to  go  with  it.  He's  goin'  to  cut  down  all 
them  cinnamon  roses  in  the  front  yard  to-morrow.  He's 
brought  over  his  sickle  to-night." 

That  was  all  Elsie  heard.  She  did  not  know  how  long 
they  talked  after  that.  He  was  going  to  cut  down  Lucina's 
cinnamon  roses ! 

She  kept  saying  it  over  to  herself,  as  if  it  were  a  task  she 
had  to  learn,  and  she  could  not  easily  understand.  "  Lu- 
ciny's  cinnamon  roses.  He's  goin'  to  cut  down  all  Luciny's 
cinnamon  roses  to-morrow." 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  that  night  when  Elsie  crept  down 
the  stairs  and  out  the  front  door.  There  was  no  sound,  ex 
cept  her  brother's  heavy  breathing,  in  the  house.  He  and 
his  wife  had  been  asleep  three  hours.  Elsie  sidled  out  of 
the  yard,  keeping  on  the  grass,  then  sped  across  the  road, 
and  down  it  a  little  way  to  her  old  home.  There  were  only 
these  two  houses  for  a  long  way  ;  there  was  not  a  light  visi 
ble  in  either.  No  one  would  be  passing  at  this  time  of  the 
night ;  there  was  no  danger  of  her  being  observed ;  more- 
12 


174 


CINNAMON  ROSES. 


over,  she  could  not  have  been  very  easily.  Great  elms  grew 
on  both  sides  of  the  street,  and  they  cast  broad,  flickering 
shadows.  Elsie,  keeping  close  with  the  shadows,  as  if  they 
were  friends,  and  progressing  with  soft  starts,  after  little 
pauses,  to  listen  and  peer,  might  have  passed  for  a  shadow 
herself. 

She  stopped  for  a  minute  at  the  corner  of  the  yard,  and 
stared  fearfully  over  at  the  periled  roses.  The  moon  was 
coming  up,  and  she  could  see  them  distinctly.  She  fell  to 
remembering.  To  this  innocent,  simple-hearted  creature, 
clinging  so  closely  to  old  holy  loves  and  loyalties  that  she 
meditated  what  to  her  was  a  desperate  deed  in  defence  of 
them,  that  fair  dead  Lucina  became  visible  among  her  cin 
namon  roses. 

Elsie  for  a  minute,  as  she  stood  there,  was  all  memory ; 
the  past  seemed  to  come  back  in  pity  for  her  agony  of  re 
gret,  and  overshine  the  present. 

The  light  of  an  old  morning  lay  on  those  roses,  and  young 
Lucina  stood  among  them,  lovely  and  triumphant.  She  had 
just  set  them  in  the  earth  with  her  own  dear  hands. 

When  Elsie  moved  again  she  was  ready  for  anything. 

Oh,  those  cinnamon  roses !  the  only  traces  which  that 
beautiful,  beloved  maiden  had  left  of  her  presence  in  the 
world  !  Oh,  those  cinnamon  roses  !  the  one  little  legacy  of 
grace  which  she  had  been  able  to  bequeath  to  it ! 

When  Elsie  came  out  on  the  road  again  she  had  some 
thing  carefully  covered  by  her  apron,  lest  the  moon  should 
make  it  glitter.  She  ran  home  faster  than  she  had  come, 
with  no  watchful  pauses  now.  But  she  had  to  make  an 
other  cautious  journey  to  the  Wing  barn  before  she  returned 
to  her  room.  Finally  she  gained  it  successfully:  no  one 
had  heard  her. 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  ^5 

The  next  morning  some  one  knocked  while  the  family 
were  at  the  breakfast  table.  Silas  went  to  the  door. 

"  The  queerest  thing,"  he  said,  when  he  returned.  "  Hav 
ers  ha.s  lost  his  sickle,  the  one  he  brought  over  last  night, 
an'  he  wants  to  borrow  mine,  an'  I  can't  find  that  high  or 
low.  I  would  ha'  sworn  it  was  hangin'  on  the  hook  in  the 
barn.  He  wants  to  get  them  cinnamon  roses  cut." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  it  was  queer  !"  said  his  wife.  "  I 
know  I  saw  it  out  there  yesterday.  Are  you  sure  it's 
gone?" 

"  Course  I  am.     Don't  you  s'pose  I've  got  eyes  ?" 

Elsie  said  nothing.  She  bent  her  head  over  her  plate 
and  tried  to  eat.  They  did  not  notice  how  white  she  was. 
She  kept  a  sharp  watch  all  day ;  she  started  every  time  any 
one  spoke ;  she  kept  close  to  the  others ;  she  dreaded  to 
hear  what  might  be  said,  but  she  dreaded  more  not  to 
hear. 

"  Has  Mr.  Havers  found  his  sickle  yet  ?"  Mrs.  Wing 
asked,  when  her  husband  came  home  at  night.  He  had 
been  over  to  the  village.  "  I  see  you  ridin'  home  with 
him." 

"  No,  he  'ain't.  He's  gone  and  bought  a  new  one.  Says 
he's  bound  to  hev  them  roses  cut  down  to-morrow.  'Ain't 
seen  anything  of  ourn  yet,  hev  ye?" 

"  No  ;  I've  been  out  myself  an'  looked." 

"Well,  it  beats  everything  —  two  sickles  right  in  the 
neighborhood !  I  ruther  think  some  one  must  ha'  took 
'em." 

"  Land  !  Silas,  nobody's  took  'em.  I  know  all  about  you. 
I've  kno;wn  you  to  hev  things  stole  before,  an'  it  always 
turned  out  you  was  the  thief.  When  you  lose  a  thing,  it's 
always  stole." 


!76  CINNAMON  ROSES. 

Elsie  found  it  harder  to  start  out  to-night ;  a  little  of  the 
first  impetus  was  wasted.  Still,  she  did  not  hesitate.  When 
the  house  was  quiet  she  crept  out  again,  and  went  over  to 
the  old  place. 

She  did  not  stop  to  reflect  over  the  roses  to-night.  She 
was  braced  up  to  do  her  errand ;  but  it  must  be  done 
quickly,  or  she  would  give  way.  .  She  went  straight  around 
the  house  to  the  woodshed,  where  she  had  found  the  sickle 
the  night  before.  As  she  came  close  to  the  open  arch 
which  served  as  entrance,  there  was  a  swift  rush,  and  Will 
iam  Havers  stood  beside  her  holding  her  arm. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said,  then  began  feebly  gasping  for  breath. 

"  Elsie  Mills !  what  in  the  world  are  you  doin'  here  ?" 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Why,  Elsie,  what  is  it?  Don't  you  be  afraid,  you  poor 
little  thing.  What  was  it  you  wanted  ?  Tell  me." 

"  Let  me  go  !" 

"Of  course  I  will,  but  I  think  you'd  better  tell  me  what 
you  wanted,  an'  let  me  get  it.  I'd  be  glad  enough  to.  I 
didn't  mean  to  scare  you.  I  suspected  I'd  hed  a  sickle 
stole,  an'  I  was  kinder  keepin'  a  lookout.  When  I  jumped 
out  I  didn't  see  who  'twas." 

"  I  stole  your  sickle,  an'  I'll  steal  it  again  if  you  offer  to 
tech  Luciny's  roses." 

"  You — stole  my  sickle — I  offer  to  tech  Luciny's  roses  ! 
I  guess  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Elsie." 

"  I  mean  jest  what  I  say.  I'll  steal  your  sickle  every 
time  you  offer  to  cut  down  Luciny's  roses." 

"You  mean  them  roses  out  in  the  front  yard?" 

"  Course  I  do.     Didn't  she  set  'em  out  ?" 

"Lord!  I  didn't  know.  I  didn't  know  nothin'  about  it. 
I  hadn't  no  notion  of  your  feelin'  bad.  If  I  had,  I  guess — 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  !7y 

Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Why  didn't  you  come  right  over? 
I'd  hev  mown  off  my  own  fingers  before  I'd  offered  to  tech 
them  roses  if  I'd  known." 

"Do  you  s'pose  I  was  goin'  to  come  over  here  an'  ask 
you  not  to,  whe,n  I  knew  you  was  jest  doin'  it  for  spite 
'cause  Luciny  wouldn't  hev  you  ?" 

"  'Cause  Luciny  wouldn't  hev  me  ?" 

"Yes,  'cause  Luciny  wouldn't  hev  you." 

"  I  didn't  never  ask  her  to  hev  me,  Elsie." 

"What?" 

"  I  didn't  never  ask  her." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean  by  that." 

"Why,  I  mean  I  didn't." 

"What  was  you  hangin'  round  her  so  fur,  then?  An* 
what  made  you  act  so  awful  cut  up?" 

"  Didn't  you  never  know  'twas  yon,  Elsie  ?" 

"Me?" 

"  Yes,  you." 

"  Well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  you'd  orter  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  A  girl  like  Luciny — you  wa'n't  fit  to  look  at 
her.  I  guess  there  wa'n't  many  fellers  round  but  would 
ruther  hev  lied  her  than  anybody  else.  I  guess  it's  sour 
grapes." 

"  I  knew  Luciny  was  the  handsomest  girl  anywheres 
round,  but  that  didn't  make  no  difference.  I  always  liked 
you  best.  I  don't  think  you'd  orter  be  mad,  Elsie." 

"I  ain't;  but  I  don't  like  to  see  anybody  like  Luciny 
slighted.  I  wa'n't  nothin'  side  of  Luciny." 

"Well,  I  reckon  your  thinkin'  you  wa'n't' was  what  made 
me  take  to  you  in  the  first  place.  Look  a-here,  Elsie.  I'm 
a-goin'  to  tell  you.  I've  been  wantin'  to,  but  I  didn't  know 
but  I'd  die  before  I  got  a  chance.  I  come  over  an'  bought 


178  CINNAMON  ROSES. 

this  place  jest  on  your  account,  when  I  heard  the  mortgage 
was  goin'  to  be  foreclosed.  I  didn't  reely  s'pose  you'd  be 
willin'  to  marry  me,  you  treated  me  so  indifFrent  in  Luciny's 
day ;  but  I  didn't  pay  no  attention  to  that.  I  wanted  you 
to  keep  on  livin'  here.  When  you  acted, so  mad  'cause  I 
spoke  about  it,  I  didn't  dare  to  say  anything  more.  But  I 
wish  you'd  come  now.  Won't  you  ?  I'll  go  back  to  my  old 
home ;  'twon't  put  me  out  a  mite.  An'  I  sha'n't  do  it  be 
cause  I've  got  any  spite,  nor  want  to  show  out.  It'll  be 
because  I've  always  liked  you  better'n  anybody  else,  an' 
wanted  to  do  something  fur  you." 

Elsie  was  crying.  "  I've  got  to  get  used  to  thinkin'  of 
it,"  she  sobbed. 

"Well,  you  think  it  over,  an'  you  come  back  here.  It's 
your  home,  where  you've  always  lived,  an'  I  know  you'll  be 
happier,  no  matter  how  much  your  brother's  folks  do  fur 
you.  You  make  up  your  mind  an'  come  back.  I'll  hev 
the  house  painted,  an'  it  '11  look  real  pretty  with  the  blue 
door;  an'  I  won't  hev  a  single  one  of  them  cinnamon  roses 
cut  down,  if  I  find  out  that  their  roots  are  tangled  up  in  a 
gold  mine." 

"No;  I  sha'n't  let  you  give  me  the  house  fur  nothing;  I 
sha'n't,  William." 

"Now,  Elsie,  thar  ain't  no  reason  in  your  feelin'  so. 
When  anybody  gets  to  thinkin'  a  good  deal  of  anybody  else, 
why  it  don't  make  so  much  difference  about  yourself;  the 
other  one  stands  first.  If  you  kin  see  the  other  one  happy, 
you  don't  know  any  difference  betwixt  that  an'  bein'  happy 
yourself,  an'  if  you  kin  only  do  something  to  make  the  other 
one  happy,  why,  it  comes  before  anything  else.  That's  jest 
the  way  I  feel.  I've  got  eddicated  up  to  it.  So  don't  you 
worry  about  takin'  the  house  fur  nothing.  You  ain't.  Now 


CINNAMON  ROSES.  !79 

you'll  git  cold  standin'  here.  I'm  goin*  to  see  you  safe  to 
your  brother's,  an'  you  think  it  over." 

Her  little  nervous  hand  clutched  at  his  coat  sleeve  to  de 
tain  him. 

"Look-a  here  a  minute.  I  want  to  tell  you.-  I  ain't 
never  had  anything  like  this  to  say  before,  an'  I  don't  know 
how.  When  I  got  to  thinkin'  about  anything  of  this  kind, 
I  always  put  Luciny  in  instead  of  me.  But  I  want  to  tell 
you — I'm  all  took  by  surprise,  an'  I  don't  know — but  mebbe, 
if  I  could  get  used  to  thinkin'  of  it,  I — could — " 

"  I  guess  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Elsie." 

"Well,  it  don't  seem  as  if  thar  would  be  much  sense  in 
my  gittin'  married  now,  anyway." 

Elsie  Mills  and  William  Havers  were  married  at  the 
bride's  brother's.  When  the  bridal  couple  went  to  their 
own  home,  they  did  not  enter  at  the  front  door.  They 
passed  around  to  the  side  one,  because  the  front  yard  was 
so  full  of  cinnamon  roses. 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

GOVERNMENT  had  for  several  years  been  sadly  neglect 
ing  a  job  of  mending,  in  the  case  of  the  Bar  Light-house 
bridge.  Here  and  there  boards  had  begun  to  spring  sus 
piciously  beneath  unwary  footsteps;  then  the  wind  had 
begun  to  tear  them  off,  and  the  rain  to  rot  and  moulder 
them  down.  What  was  every  man's  business  was  no 
body's,  and  no  individual  was  disposed  to  interfere  with 
the  province  of  that  abstract  millionaire,  the  United  States 
government.  To  be  sure,  the  keeper  of  the  Bar  Light, 
Jackson  Reed,  who  was  naturally  more  solicitous  concern 
ing  the  holding-out  of  the  structure  than  any  one  else,  had 
wildly  and  fruitlessly  patched  some  of  the  worst  places,  off 
and  on,  after  a  hard  "  northeaster,"  when  he  awoke  more 
keenly  to  the  exigencies  of  the  case,  and  the  hopeless  dila- 
toriness  of  his  task-master.  But  it  had  amounted  to  very 
little.  Long  neglect  had  made  something  more  than  mere 
patching  necessary.  Now  the  quarter-mile  bridge  leading 
to  the  Bar  Light-house,  if  not  in  an  absolutely  unsafe  con 
dition,  was  not  calculated  to  inspire  with  any  degree  of 
confidence  the  unaccustomed  crosser  at  least.  It  was  not 
quite  so  bad  at  low  tide,  or  on  a  mild,  still  day.  There 
was  not  much  to  fear  then  beyond  a  little  fall  and  a  duck 
ing;  that  is,  if  one  cleared  one  of  those  ragged  apertures 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE.  181 

successfully.     But  on  a  dark  night,  with  the  winds  howling""; 
over  it,  and  the  ocean  thundering  beneath  it,  it  was  the 
sort  of  a  bridge  that  only  a  disembodied  spirit  could  be 
supposed  to  cross  with  any  degree  of  nonchalance. 

The  light-house  itself  was  only  an  ordinary  dwelling- 
house,  strongly  built,  with  a  tower  for  the  light.  It  stood 
on  a  massive  pile  of  rocks,  with  little  tufts  of  coarse  vege 
tation  in  the  clefts.  Jackson  Reed,  who  had  an  unfortu 
nate  love  and  longing  for  a  garden  spot,  had  actually 
wheeled  enough  earth  over  from  the  mainland  for  a  little 
patch  a  few  yards  square,  and  when  he  was  not  engaged 
in  a  fruitless  struggle  with  the  broken  bridge  he  was  en 
gaged  in  a  fruitless  struggle  with  his  garden.  A  pottering 
old  man  was  Jackson  Reed,  lacking  in  nervous  force  and 
quickness  of  intellect;  but  he  had  never  let  the  light  go 
out,  and  the  only  thing  that  is  absolutely  required  of  a 
light-house  keeper  is  to  keep  the  light  burning  for  the 
sailors  who  steer  by  it. 

'The  wonder  was  that  his  wife  Sarah  should  have  been 
his  wife.  She  was  a  person  not  of  a  different  mould 
merely,  but  of  a  different  kind;  not  of  a  different  species, 
but  a  different  genus.  Nervous  and  alert,  what  her  hus 
band  accepted  in  patient  silence  she  received  with  shrill 
remonstrance  and  questioning.  Her  husband  patched  the 
bridge,  crawling  over  its  long  reach  on  his  old  knees;  she 
railed,  as  she  watched  him,  at  the  neglect  of  government. 
He  uncomplainingly  brushed  the  sand  from  his  little,  puny, 
struggling  plants,  and  she  set  her  thin  face  against  the  wind 
that  cast  it  there. 

In  both  the  religious  element  or  cast  of  mind  was  strongly 
predominant,  but  Jackson  Reed  simply  looked  out  on  nat 
ure  and  into  his  own  soul,  and  took  in  as  plain  incontro- 


1 82      •  THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

vertible  facts  the  broken  bridge,  the  tossing  sea,  his  little 
wind-swept,  sand-strewn  garden-patch,  and  God  in  heaven. 
/Neither  proved  the  other  or  nullified  the  other;  they  were 
(simply  there.  But  Sarah  Reed,  looking  out  on  the  frail, 
unsafe  bridge  which  connected  them  with  the  mainland, 
and  the  mighty,  senseless  sea  which  had  swallowed  up  her 
father  and  a  brother  whom  she  had  idolized,  and  the  poor 
little  tender  green  things  trying  to  live  under  her  window, 
had  seen  in  them  so  many  denials  of  either  God's  love  and 
mercy,  or  his  existence.  She  was  a  rheumatic,  old  woman 
now,  almost  helpless,  in  fact,  unable  to  step  without  the 
help  of  her  husband.  And  she  sat,  day  in  and  day  out,  at 
one  of  the  sea-windows  of  her  sitting-room,  knitting,  and 
holding  her  defiant  old  heart  persistently  against  the  pricks. 
The  minister  at  Rye,  a  zealous  young  man,  with  an  inno 
cent  confidence  in  his  powers  of  holy  argument,  had  visited 
her  repeatedly,  with  the  view  of  improving  her  state  of 
mind.  She  had  joined  the  church  over  which  he  presided 
in  her  youth;  indeed,  it  was  the  church  nearest  to  the  light 
house,  and  that  was  three  miles  distant.  The  minister  had 
heard  from  one  of  his  parishioners,  who  was  a  connection 
of  hers,  that  Mis'  Reed  had  lost  her  faith,  and  straightway 
he  was  fired  with  holy  ardor  to  do  something  for  her  spir 
itual  benefit.  But  even  his  tonguey  confidence  and  ingenu 
ousness  could  glean  but  little  satisfaction  from  his  inter 
views  with  the  rheumatic  and  unbelieving  old  woman. 

"  No,  Mr.  Pendleton,"  she  used  to  say,  shaking  a  thin, 
rheumatic  hand  with  an  impressiveness  which  her  hearer 
might  have  copied  advantageously  in  the  pulpit,  "it  ain't 
no  use.  You  kin  talk  about  seein'  with  the  spirit,  an'  wor- 
shippin'  with  the  spirit;  anybody  needs  a  little  somethin' 
to  catch  hold  on  with  the  flesh;  when  it's  all  spirit  it's  too 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE.  ^3 

much  for  a  mortal  bein'  to  comprehend,  an'  the  Lord  knows 
I  ain't  never  had  much  of  anything  but  spirit.  I  ain't 
never  had  any  evidence,  so  to  speak;  I  ain't  never  had  a 
prayer  answered  in  my  life.  If  I  have,  I'd  jest  like  to 
know  how.  You.  say,  mebbe,  they've  been  answered  jest 
the  same,  only  in  a  different  way  from  I  asked  for.  Ef  you 
call  it  answerin'  prayer  to  give  one  thing  when  you  ask  for 
another,  I  don't.  An'  I'd  ruther  not  believe  thar  was  any 
God  than  to  believe  he'd  do  a  thing  like  that.  That's  jest 
contrary  to  what  he  said  about  himself  an'  the  bread  an' 
the  stone  in  the  New  Testament.  It's  worse  to  think  he'd 
cheat  anybody  like  that  than  to  think  he  ain't  anywhar, 
accordin'  to  my  mind.  No,  Mr.  Pendleton,  a  human  bein' 
needs  a  little  human  evidence  once  in  a  while  to.  keep  up 
their  faith,  an'  I  ain't  never  had  any.  I'll  jest  let  you 
know  how  it's  been  a  leetle.  Here  I  am,  an  old  woman, 
an'  me  an'  Jackson's  lived  here  on  this  rock  for  forty  year. 
An'  thar's  been  things  I've  wanted  different,  but  I  ain't 
never  had  'em — things  that  I've  cried  an'  groaned  an' 
prayed  to  the  Lord  for — big  things  an'  little  things — but  I 
never  got  one.  Ef  the  Lord  had  give  me  one  of  the  little 
things,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  might  have  got  a  feeling  that 
he  was  here. 

"  Forty  year  ago,  when  Jackson  an'  me  was  jest  married 
an'  set  up  housekeepin'  here,  thar  was  an  awful  storm  one 
night,  an'  my  father  an'  my  brother  was  out  yonder  in  it. 
I  stayed  on  my  knees  all  night  pray  in'.  The  next  mornin' 
their  two  darlin'  bodies  was  washed  ashore.  My  brother 
had  only  been  married  a  few  months — the  sweetest,  loving- 
est  little  thing  she  was.  She  began  to  pine.  I  prayed  to 
hev  her  spared.  She  died,  an'  left  her  little  baby." 

"  But  you  had  him  for  your  own,  did  you  not  ?"    inter- 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

rupted  Mr.  Pendleton,  desperately.  "  He  has  been  a  com 
fort  to  you.  God  has  displayed  his  love  and  mercy  in 
this  case  in  sparing  him  to  you." 

"Mr.  Pendleton" — and  the  rheumatic  hand  went  up 
again — "I  ain't  never  asked  to  hev  him  spared  to  me;  ef 
I  had  it  would  hev  been  different.  I  ain't  got  through  yet. 
Thar's  been  lots  of  other  things,  big  ones,  that  I  might  jest 
as  well  not  speak  of,  and  little  ones.  Look  at  that  bridge! 
I'll  ventur'  to  say  that  you  shook  in  your  shoes  when  you 
came  over  it,,  an'  wouldn't  be  sorry  this  minute  ef  you  was 
safe  back.  Whenever  Jackson  goes  over  it  my  heart  is 
still  an'  cold  till  he  comes  back,  for  fear  he's  fell  through. 
I've  prayed  to  the  Lord  about  that.  Then — you  may  think 
this  a  little  thing — but  thar  is  Jackson's  garden.  He  set 
out  a  rose-bush  in  it  fifteen  year  ago.  Well,  it  ain't  died. 
Thar  ain't  ever  been  a  rose  on  it,  though.  An'  it  seems  to 
me  sometimes  that  if  thar  should  be  jest  one  rose  on  that 
bush  that  I  should  believe  that  the  Lord  had  been  thar. 
You  wouldn't  think  I'd  been  silly  enough  to  pray  about 
that.  I  hev.  It's  fifteen  year,  an'  thar  ain't  never  been  a 
rose  thar.  No,  Mr.  Pendleton,  it  ain't  no  use.  You  mean 
well,  but  it  lays  with  God,  ef  he's  anywhar,  to  show  him 
self  to  me  in  a  way  I  can  get  hold  on." 

So  the  pretty,  rosy-faced  young  minister  would  go  away, 
picking  his  way  cautiously  over  the  unstable  bridge,  after 
a  somewhat  nonplussed  prayer,  to  which  Mrs.  Reed,  inca 
pacitated  from  kneeling  by  her  rheumatic  knees,  had  sat 
and  listened  grimly. 

The  Bar  Light-house  was  three  miles  from  Rye.  A 
sandy,  desolate  road  almost  as  billowy  as  the  sea  stretched 
between.  The  only  house  in  the  whole  distance  was  a 
little  brown  one  just  at  the  other  side  of  the  bridge.  The 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE.  l85 

Weavers  lived  there,  a  mother  and  daughter.     They  sup 
ported  themselves  by  sewing  for  a  shop  in  Rye.     Jackson 
Reed's    nephew,  William   Barstow,  had    been    engaged    to 
marry  the  daughter — Abby  her  name  was;    but  a  month , 
ago  he  had  brought  a  wife  home  from  the  city.     He  had  \ 
rented  a  pretty  little  tenement  over  in  Rye,  and  gone  to 
housekeeping.     Abby  Weaver  had  tied  up  a  few  little  notes 
and  keepsakes  in  a  neat  parcel,  and  put  them  away  out  of 
sight.     Then  she  went  on  with  her  work.     She  was  a  plain, 
trustworthy-looking  girl,  with  no  show  about  her,  as  differ 
ent  as  possible  from  the  one  her  recreant  lover  had  mar 
ried.     She  was  pretty,  with  an  entrancing  little  air  of  style 
about  everything  she  wore.     Abby  had  seen  her  go  by  a 
few  times  in  a  jaunty  velvet  jacket  and  kilted  petticoat, 
with  the  fair,  round  face  with  its  fringe  of  fluffy  blond  hair 
smiling  up  at  her  husband  out  of  a  bewitching  little  poke. 
Then  she  had  gone  and  looked  at  herself  in  her  poor  glass,  i*j 
taking  in  the  old  black  alpaca,  the  plain  common  face  with  [  & 
the  dull  hair  combed  back  from  her  forehead. 

"  No  wonder,"  said  she,  "  an'  I'm  glad  it's  so,  for  I  don't 
think  the  Lord  can  blame  him." 

Sarah  Reed  had  found  a -double  trial  in  the  breaking-off 
of  the  engagement.  In  the  first  place,  she  had  liked  Abby. 
In  the  second  place,  this  new  matrimonial  arrangement 
had  taken  the  darling  of  her  heart  from  under  her  imme 
diate  supervision.  If  he  had  married  Abby  Weaver,  he 
would  have  lived  either  in  the  light-house,  as  he  had  done 
all  his  life,  or  in  her  mother's  cottage.  Nothing  could  suit 
his  pretty  city  lady  but  to  live  in  Rye.  The  bare  idea  of 
the  light-house  terrified  her. 

Sarah  Reed's  frame  of  mind  had  not  improved  since  the 
marriage. 


!86  THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  weeks  after  the  young  couple  had 
set  up  housekeeping,  an  unexpected  deficiency  in  some 
household  stores  sent  Jackson  Reed  to  Rye,  where  the 
nearest  markets  were.  It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
when  he  went,  and  there  was  a  storm  coming. 

"  Don't  worry,  Sarah,"  his  last  words  were,  "  an'  I'll  be 
back  by  five  to  light  the  lamp.  It'll  be  pretty  near  dark 
"  enough  for  it  then,  I  reckon,  ef  it  keeps  on  this  way,  ef  it  is 
June." 

She  sat  at  her  window  with  her  knitting  after  he  had 
gone,  and  watched  the  storm  roll  up.  She  had  taken  a 
fancy  lately  to  a  landward  window,  the  one  with  the  poor 
little  garden-patch  under  it,  and  the  rose-bush  which  never 
blossomed.  The  bush  really  looked  wonderfully  thrifty, 
considering  its  many  drawbacks  to  growth.  But  it  was  in 
a  sheltered  corner,  and  had  all  the  warmth  and  mildness 
that  could  be  had  in  the  bleak  place.  It  was  three  feet 
high  or  so,  a  hardy  little  Scotch  rose.  There  certainly 
seemed  no  reason  in  nature  why  it  should  not  blossom,  but 
blossom  it  never  had.  Mrs.  Reed  never  looked  at  it  now 
for  buds.  She  never  even  glanced  at  it  to-day;  she  only 
looked  out  uneasily  at  the  darkening  sky,  and  knit  on  her 
stocking.  She  was  always  knitting  stockings;  in  fact,  it 
was  all  the  kind  of  work  she  could  do,  and  she  had  never 
been  an  idle  woman  with  her  brain  or  her  fingers.  So  she 
knit  stout  woollen  stockings  for  her  husband  and  William 
Barstow  from  morning  till  night.  Her  husband  kept  the 
house  tidy  and  did  the  cooking,  and  he  was  as  faithful  at 
/it  as  a  woman.  No  one  looking  at  the  room  in  which  Mrs. 
(Heed  sat  would  have  dreamed  that  it  was  not  the  field  of 
/  action  of  a  tidy  housewife.  It  was  a  plain,  rather  cheerless 
kind  of  a  room.  There  was  a  large-figured,  dull-colored 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE.  xSy 

ingrain  carpet  on  the  floor,  there  was  a  shiny  table,  and 
some  flag-bottomed  chairs,  and  a  stiff,  hair-cloth  sofa.  A 
few  shells  on  the  mantel-shelf,  a  lamp-mat  that  Abby 
Weaver  had  made,  and  a  framed  wreath  which  had  lain 
on  William  Barstow's  father's  coffin  were  all  the  orna 
ments.  Take  a  room  like  that  and  set  it  on  a  rock  in  the 
ocean,  with  the  wind  and  the  waves  howling  around  ft,  and 
there  is  not  anything  especially  enlivening  about  it. 

Mrs.  Reed  had  been  rather  good-looking  in  her  youth, 
and  was  even  rather  good-looking  now.  She  had  bright, 
alert  blue  eyes,  and  pretty,  soft  gray  hair.  But  there  was 
an  air  of  keen  unrest  about  her  which  could  jar  on  nerves 
like  a  strident  saw.  In  repose  she  would  have  been  a 
sweet  old  woman.  Now  she  looked  and  was,  as  people 
say,  hard  to  get  along  with.  Jackson  Reed's  light  burning 
meant  more  to  the  Lord,  perhaps,  than  it  did  to  the  sailors. 

At  five  o'clock  the  storm  was  fairly  there,  and  the  old 
light-house  keeper  had  not  come  home.  A  heavy  tempest 
twilight  was  settling  down,  and  it  was  almost  time  the  lamp 
was  lighted. 

Six  o'clock  came,  and  it  was  darker  yet,  and  still  she 
sat  there  alone,  her  knitting  dropped  in  her  lap.  Seven 
o'clock,  and  her  old  husband  had  not  come.  It  was  quite 
dark  now,  and  a  terrible  night,  hot  and  pitchy,  and  full  of 
mighty  electric  winds  and  fires'  and  thunders.  A  conglom 
erate  roar  came  from  the  ocean  as  from  a  den  of  wild 
beasts.  Suddenly  an  awful  thought  struck  the  wretched 
old  woman  at  the  light-house  window,  and  swift  on  its 
track  rushed  another  still  more  awful.  The  first  was.  her 
husband  had  had  a  "  turn  "  somewhere  on  that  lonely  road 
from  Rye.  "  Turns,"  as  she  called  them,  Jackson  Reed 
had  had  once  or  twice  before,  but  they  had  never  inter- 


1 88  THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

fered  with  his  duty.  He  had  fallen  down  insensible,  and 
lain  so  for  two  or  three  hours.  This  was  what  had  hap 
pened  to  him  now.  And  the  second  thought  was — her  dar 
ling.  William  Barstow  was  out  on  that  dreadful  sea,  and 
there  was  no  light  to  guide  him  to  port.  Strange  that  she 
had  not  thought  before.  Yes,  it  was  Tuesday.  Was  it 
Tuesday  ?  Yes,  the  very  day  he  was  going  down  to  Lock- 
port  with  Johnny  Sower.  He  was  out  on  that  sea  some 
where  in  a  boat,  which  could  not  live  in  it  a  minute.  Yes, 
it  was  to-day  he  was  going.  He  and  his  pretty  little  wife 
were  talking  it  over  Sunday  night.  She  was  lamenting, 
half  in  sport  and  half  in  earnest,  over  the  lonesome  clay 
she  would  have,  and  he  promised  to  bring  her  home  a  new 
bonnet  to  console  her.  Yes,  it  was  Tuesday,  and  Jackson 
Reed  had  told  Abby  Weaver  about  it  yesterday — that  was 
Monday.  He  had  forgotten  that  she  was  no  longer  so  in 
terested  in  Wrillie  Barstow's  movements.  And  when  he 
told  his  wife  what  he  had  done  she  scolded  him  for  his 
thoughtlessness. 

Yes,  it  was  Tuesday,  and  he  was  out  on  that  sea,  and 
there  was  no  lamp  lighted.  Nothing  to  keep  him  off  these 
terrible  rocks  that  the  light  had  been  set  there  to  show.  In 
the  morning  he  would  be  thrown  dumb  and  cold  where  she 
could  almost  see  him  from  her  window.  It  would  be  with 
him  as  it  had  been  with  his  father  and  grandfather,  and 
maybe  with  his  wife  as  it  had  been  with  his  poor  young 
mother.  All  the  strong,  baffled,  but  not  suppressed  nature 
of  the  woman  asserted  itself  with  terrible  force. 

"Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!  my  darling!"  she  shrieked, 
in  a  voice  which  was  in  itself  both  a  prayer  and  a  curse. 
"  You  out  thar,  an'  all  the  love  in  your  mother's  heart  can't 
light  ye  home  !  Oh,  the  black  water  rollin'  over  that  beau- 


THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE.  j89 

tiful  face,  an'  those  laughin'  blue  eyes  that  looked  at  me 
when  you  was  a  baby,  an'  those  black  curls  I've  brushed, 
an'  those  lips  I've  kissed — puttin'  out  that  lovin'  soul !  O 
Lord!  Lord!  Lord!" 

"  He's  been  a  good  boy,"  she  went  on  in  a  curious  tone, 
as  if  the  mighty  ear  of  the  inexorable  God  she  had  half  be 
lieved  in  was  become  now  a  reality  to  her,  and  she  was 
pouring  arguments,  unavailing  though  they  might  be,  into 
it — "he's  been  a  good  boy;  never  any  bad  habits,  an', 
what's  worse  than  bad  habits,  never  any  little  mean  actions. 
There's  Abby  Weaver,  I  know ;  but  look  at  the  face  of 
the  girl  he's  married.  O  Lord,  love  is  the  same  behind  a 
homely  face  an'  a  handsome  one.  But  while  you  keep  on 
makin'  folks  that  think  roses  is  prettier  than  potatoes,  an' 
pearls  than  oysters,  the  love  that  looks  out  of  a  pretty 
face  will  hold  the  longest  an'  the  strongest.  He  wa'n't  to 
blame — O  Lord,  he  wa'n't  to  blame.  Abby  was  a  good 
girl,  but  you  made  this  other  one  as  pretty  as  a  pictur'. 
He  wa'n't  to  blame,  Lord,  he  wa'n't  to  blame.  Don't  drown 
him  for  that.  It  ain't  right  to  drown  him  for  that.  O  Lord ! 
Lord!  Lord!" 

She  sat  there  shrieking  on  in  a  strained,  weak  voice,  half 
in  prayer,  half  in  expostulation.  The  wind  rose  higher  and 
higher,  and  the  sea  thundered  louder  and  longer.  A  new 
terror  seized  her.  If  her  husband  should  recover  from  the 
bad  turn  which  she  suspected  he  had  had,  and  attempt  to 
cross  that  bridge  now,  he  would  be  killed  too.  God  knew 
what  new  rents  might  be  in  it.  When  her  sitting-room 
clock  clanged  out  nine,  above  the  roar  of  the  storm,  she 
went  into  a  perfect  fury  of  despair.  Down  she  sank  on 
those  old  rheumatic  knees  that  had  not  bent  at  her  bidding 
for  the  last  five  years,  and  prayed  as  she  never  had  before. 
13 


I90  THE  BAR  LIGHT-HOUSE. 

In  the  midst  of  her  agony  a  g'vat  calm  fell  suddenly 
over  her. 

"I  will  go  an'  light  the  lamp  myself,"  she  said,  in  an 
awed  voice,  "  an'  He  will  go  with  me."  Slowly  Sarah  Reed 
arose  on  feet  that  had  not  borne  her  weight  for  five  years. 
Every  movement  was  excruciating  torture,  but  she  paid  no 
heed  to  it ;  she  seemed  to  feel  it  and  yet  be  outside  of  it. 
She  realized,  as  it  were,  the  separateness  of  her  soul  and 
her  spiritual  agony  from  all  bodily  pain. 

She  walked  across  the  floor,  went  out  into  the  entry,  and 

groped  her  way  up  the  narrow  stairs  leading  to  the  tower. 

She  dragged  herself  up  the  steep  steps  with  terrible  deter- 

f  initiation.     She  slid  apart  the  slide  at  the  top,  and  a  blaze 

'  of  light  almost  blinded  her.     The  lamp  was  lighted. 

Sarah  Reed  might  have  floated  down  those  stairs,  up 
borne  on  angels'  wings,  for  all  she  knew.  Somehow  she 
was  back  in  her  sitting-room,  on  her  knees.  Her  husband 
found  her  there,  a  half-hour  later,  when  he  staggered,  pale 
as  death  and  drenched  to  the  skin,  into  the  room. 

"Good  Lord,  Sarah,  who  lit  the  lamp?"  his  first  words 
were. 

"The  angel  of  the  Lord,"  she  answered,  solemnly,  rais 
ing  her  gray  head. 

"  I  hed  a  turn  over  thar  on  the  road,  Txmt  a  mile  out  of 
Rye.  I've  jest  come  to  an'  got  home.  Seemed  to  me  I 
should  die  when  I  thought  of  William.  The  bridge  is 
pretty  well  broke  up,  but  I  hung  on  to  the  side.  And, 
Lord!  when  I  saw  that  light  burnin'  I  could  ha'  come  over 
a  cobweb.  Who  come  to  light  it,  Sarah  ?" 

"The  angel  of  the  Lord,"  she  said  again.  "Don't  you 
ever  say  it  ain't  so,  Jackson  ;  don't  you  ever  dare  to  try  to 
make  me  stop  thinking  it's  so.  I've  been  askin'  the  Lord 


THE  BAR   LIGHT-HOUSE.  !9I 

all  these  years  for  something  to  show  me  that  he  was 
anywhar,  an'  he  has  give  it  to  me.  I  crawled  up  them 
stairs—" 

"  You  went  up  them  stairs,  Sarah  ?" 

"Yes;  I  went  up  to  light  the  lamp,  an'  it  was  lit.  The 
Lord  bed  been  thar.  It's  true  about  him." 

The  pale  old  man  went  up  to  his  kneeling  wife  and 
raised  her  tenderly. 

"Don't  you  believe  his  angel  lit  it?"  she  asked,  looking 
at  him  with  anxious  intensity. 

"Yes,  Sarah,  I  do,"  replied  Jackson  Reed.  The  thought 
was  steadily  recurring  to  his  half-dazed  brain,  "  Abby 
Weaver,  Abby  Weaver  lit  the  lamp ;  but  Sarah,  Sarah 
need  not  know." 

The  next  morning  Sarah  Reed,  looking  out  of  her  win 
dow, 'saw  a  little,  pure  white  rose  on  the  bush  beneath  it. 

"Yes,  I  meant  to  have  told  you  it  had  budded,"  said  her 
husband,  when  she  exclaimed.  "I  found  it  thar  yesterday. 
Thar's  another  one  too." 

It  was  a  lovely  clear  morning.  Abby  Weaver,  looking 
out  of  her  window,  saw  William  Barstow  pass  by  on  his 
way  to  the  light-house  to  tell  the  old  folks  of  his  safety. 


A   LOVER    OF  FLOWERS. 

THERE  was  no  room  for  any  flower-garden  in  front  of  the 
house,  it  stood  so  close  to  the  road.  The  little  cottage, 
unpainted,  save  for  white  strips  around  the  windows,  had 
an  air  of  pushing  forward  timidly.  The  small,  white,  sharp- 
steepled  meeting-house  stood  just  opposite.  There  was  a 
joke  prevalent  in  the  town  about  Silas  Vinton's  house  hav 
ing  once  started  to  go  to  meeting  when  the  bell  rang.  The 
three  uneven  stone  steps  before  the  front  door  led  quite 
clown  to  the  narrow  sidewalk,  which  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  foot-path  among  grasses  and  weeds.  The  little  strip 
of  green  under  the  two  windows,  on  each  side  of  the  front 
door,  was  closed  in  neatly  and  trimly  by  a  low  fence  of  two 
whitewashed  rails.  Silas  Vinton  had  tried  to  start  some 
plants  in  their  tiny  enclosures,  but  it  was  no  use.  The  drip 
from  the  eaves  directly  into  the  roots  kept  the  earth  washed 
away  from  them.  So  there  was  nothing  but  the  little  peb 
bly  strip,  where  the  rain-drops  fell,  through  the  close  green 
grass. 

Silas  had  enough  land  at  the  rear  of  his  house  to  make 
up  for  the  want  of  it  at  the  front.  There  were  two  good 
acres  stretching  back  to  the  river-bank.  One  acre  was  the 
flower  and  vegetable  garden,  and  the  other  was  an  apple 
orchard.  There  were  cherry-trees,  but  they  were  scattered 


A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS.  193 

about  at  intervals  through  the  garden.  This  morning  the 
trees  were  all  in  blossom,  and  some  early  flowers  in  the 
garden,  and  Silas  was  out  there  working.  He  had  taken 
his  coat  off,  and  his  blue  calico  shirt-sleeves  showed. 

He  was  a  young  man  under  thirty,  and  he  looked  still 
younger.  It  was  not  so  much  because  he  was  short  and 
slender  and  fair-haired  ;  the  effect  of  childishness  he  gave 
came  from  some  inward  quality  which  shaped  the  outward 
to  itself. 

People  used  to  say,  "  Silas  Vinton  is  a  dreadful  woman 
ish  sort  of  fellar."  But  it  was  not  womanishness  nor  boy 
ishness,  but  that  childhood  which  has  no  sex,  which  ap 
peared  in  his  round,  delicate  face.  When  he  was  a  baby 
he  must  have  had  that  same  look  of  wonder  and  inquiry 
and  innocent  speculation  that  he  had  now. 

He  was  at  work  near  where  the  garden  left  off  and  the 
orchard  began.  The  flowering  apple-trees  were  full  of 
bees,  and  there  was  a  cherry-tree  near  him  which  swarmed 
with  them.  One  could  hear  their  murmuring,  and  through 
that,  between  the  ranks  of  rosy  trees,  the  spring  rush  of 
the  river.  The  air  was  very  sweet.  Silas  was  setting  out 
some  potted  plants  which  he  had  brought  from  the  house. 
His  windows  were  rigged  with  shelves  for  them  from  sill 
to  ceiling.  His  house  in  winter  was  like  a  hothouse. 

All  this  time  Silas  kept  talking  to  himself,  or  rather  mur 
muring.  It  was  the  way  the  bees  did,  and  he  too  might 
have  been  making  honey,  after  a  spiritual  fashion.  "  Lilacs 
and  snowballs  and  almond  ;  apple-blows  and  cherry-blows 
and  daffodils." 

He  talked  to  himself  about  the  plants  he  was  setting  out : 
where  this  one  had  better  be  put,  and  that  one,  and  how 
deep  to  dig  the  holes  for  them.  But  every  now  and  then  he 


I94  A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 

cast  his  eyes  about,  and  repeated,  "  Lilacs  and  snowballs 
and  almond  :  apple-blows  and  cherry-blows  and  daffodils." 
It  was  like  a  refrain  to  his  practical  musings.  These  new 
flowers  were  in  sight  around  him  as  he  worked,  and  he 
kept  counting  them  over  as  he  might  have  counted  jewels. 

He  was  so  busy  talking  and  working  that  he  did  not  hear 
a  girl's  footstep  on  the  garden  path. 

The  first  he  heard  was  a  timid,  high-pitched  voice,  say 
ing,  "  Silas." 

He  started,  and  looked  around.  "Why,  Allhea  Rose,'.' 
said  he,  "  you  thar  ?  How  still  you  came  !  I  didn't  hear  you." 

"  Mother  wants  to  know,"  the  girl  said,  bashfully,  "  if 
you've  got  any  parsnips  you  could  let  her  have." 

"  Certain  I  have  ;  a  good  parcel  ;  and  your  mother's 
quite  welcome  to  'em.  They're  right  over  here." 

Silas  led  the  way,  and  the  girl  followed  him.  She  had 
a  basket  in  her  hand.  She  was  an  odd-looking  girl.  Her 
face  was  sweet  and  fair ;  her  features  were  small  and  deli 
cate,  and  had  that  quality  which  one  calls  waxen  in  lilies ; 
^but  everything  about  Ijer  which  did  not  depend  directly  on 
nature  was  peculiar,  Her  thick  light  hair  was  cut  squarely 
across  her  neck,  and  shelved  out  around  her  ears.  She  had 
had  a  little  stiff  white  sun-bonnet  on  her  head,  bu-t  she  had 
taken  it  off  as  she  came  along,  and  held  it  dangling  by  the 
strings.  Her  dark  calico  dress  was  so  prim  in  its  cut  that 
it  almost  acquired  an  individuality  from  it.  She  was  only 
sixteen,  but  the  skirt  touched  the  ground,  and  hid  her  little, 
coarsely  shod  feet.  The  waist  was  long  and  straight,  and 
kept  back  all  her  pretty  curves. 

She  stood  watching  Silas  as  he  got  the  parsnips.  When 
he  had  filled  her  basket,  and  rose  and  turned  to  speak  to 
her,  the  delicate  color  flashed  up  deeper  in  her  cheeks,  and 


A  LOVER  OF  FLOWERS.  195 

her  eyes  changed  like  blue  flowers  when  the  wind  strikes 
them. 

"There,"  said  he,  "  I've  filled  the  basket  full ;  and  tell  your 
mother  she  can  have  some  more  any  time  she  wants  'em." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Althea.  She  did  not  offer  to  pay 
him.  Silas  never  would  take  any  pay  ;  he  took  pride  in 
supplying  the  neighbors  gratuitously  with  vegetables,  and 
seemed  hurt  if  any  remuneration  were  offered. 

Althea  reached  out  her  hand  for  the  basket,  but  Silas 
kept  it.  "I'm  goin'  up  to  the  house,"  said  he,  "and  I'll 
carry  it  as  far's  the  gate ;  it's  kinder  heavy." 

Passing  along  by  the  clumps  and  little  beds  of  early 
flowers,  a  thought  struck  him.  "  See  here,  Althea,"  said 
he,  "don't  you  want  a  bunch  of  flowers?" 

She  gave  him  such  a  bashful  smile  that  it  ran  into  a  silly 
giggle.  "  I — don't  know." 

"  I'll  pick  you  a  bunch  in  a  minute.  I  won't  keep  you 
waitin',  for  I  suppose  your  mother  wants  to  cook  them 
parsnips  for  dinner.  I'm  goin'  to  have  some  for  mine  ;  got 
'em  all  dug  in  the  house." 

Then  he  cut  lavishly  sprays  of  dioletra,  or  lady's  ear-drop, 
snowballs,  daffodils,  flowering  almond,  and  the  other  spring 
flowers.  He  stopped  a  moment  hesitatingly  at  a  lilac  bush. 
"  See  here,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  know  as  you  like  lilacs." 

"Yes,  I  like  'em." 

"Well,  here's  a  bunch,  then.  I  didn't  know  but  what 
you  mightn't  like  them  ;  some  folks  don't.  I  reckon  it's 
'most  too  strong  a  drink  of  spring,  if  I  can  put  it  that  way, 
to  some.  I  can  stan'  it." 

When  he  handed  her  the  enormous  nosegay  he  had  cut 
for  her,  he  looked  at  her  uncovered  head.  "Ain't  you 
afraid  of  gettin'  burnt,  without  your  bonnet  ?"  asked  he. 


196  A  LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 

She  gave  her  sun-bonnet  a  spiteful  little  fling.  "  I  hate 
it !"  cried  she,  with  sudden  nerve.  "  Mother  makes  me 
wear  it,  but  I  pull  it  off  the  minute  I  get  out  of  sight.  I 
want  a  hat  like  the  other  girls.  So  !" 

"  I  thought  the  bonnet  was  real  pretty,"  said  Silas,  sym- 
pathizingly.  "  I'd  wear  it,  if  I  was  you.  You're  so  light- 
skinned  you'll  burn  real  easy.  You're  something  the  color 
of  them  apple-blows  over  there  now ;  it  would  be  a  pity  if 
you  got  brown." 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do  !  Thank  you  for  the  flowers,"  she 
added,  a  little  more  softly,  as  she  went  out  of  the  gate. 

Silas  stared  after  her.  "  She  changes  round  so  quick," 
said  he,  "  as  if  she  was  in  a  gust  of  wind.  First  her  head 
a-droppin'  down,  an'  then  she  goes  to  dancin'.  She's  got 
the  prettiest  face  I  ever  saw.  She's  prettier  than  mother 
was.  I  declare  I  might  count  her  with  them  flowers  I  was 
countin'  over  when  she  came.  She  might  come  in  after 
the  daffodils." 

When  he  went  into  the  house  and  busied  himself  about 
;  cooking  his  dinner,  he  did  say  the  string  of  flowers  over 
several  times,  and  named  Althea  after  the  daffodils.  The 
'v,  fancy  seemed  to  please  him. 

He  lived  alone  now;  he  had  always  had  his  mother  with 
him  up  to  the  last  two  years.  Now  she  was  dead.  His 
father  had  died  years  before,  when  Silas  was  a  young  boy. 
He  had  been  a  hard-working,  penurious  man,  and  had 
amassed  in  his  lifetime  what  the  townsfolk  considered  quite 
a  property.  He  owned  his  house  and  land  clear,  and  had, 
besides,  a  little  sum  in  the  bank. 

In  his  lifetime,  Silas  and  his  mother,  who  was  a  meek, 
sickly  woman,  had  been  pitifully  pinched.  After  his  death, 
when  the  restrictive  cause  had  ceased,  they  found  it  dim*- 


A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS.  197 

cult  to  rid  themselves  of  the  habit  of  being  so.     Many  a 
time,  Mrs.  Vinton  would  look  scared  when  some  extra  ex 
penditure  came  in  question,  and  say,  "  Oh,  Silas,  what  would , 
your  father  say?"     The  old  man's  iron,  grinding  will  still; 
lived  on  in  his  house  after  he  was  dead. 

Still  they  made  some  innovations.  Silas  took  the  larger 
part  of  the  garden  for  flowers,  and  cramped  the  vegetables 
into  a  smaller  space.  Before,  Silas  and  his  mother  had  not 
been  allowed  room  for  one  little  flower-bed. 

After  his  mother's  death  Silas  went  further.  He  would 
not  sell  his  vegetables,  but  gave  them  away  to  any  one  of 
the  neighbors  who  wanted  them.  He  took  the  greatest  de 
light  in  it.  The  sale  of  vegetables  had  always  been  quite 
an  item  to  them,  but  he  never  thought  of  missing  the  money. 
He  was  naturally  generous,  and  giving  was  what  singing 
would  have  been  to  him  had  he  been  musical. 

In  apple  and  cherry  time,  too,  the  children  swarmed 
about  his  place.  They  were  very  fond  of  Silas,  and  visited 
him  a  great  deal  at  all  seasons.  He  seldom  had  any  other 
visitors. 

Silas  had  never  seemed  like  other  young  men,  whether  it 
was  owing  to  his  having  been  with  his  mother  so  much  or 
his  own  natural  disposition.  He  never  had  any  associates 
of  his  own  age,  of  either  sex  ;  nobody  ever  dreamed  of  his 
getting  married.  People  called  him  a  little  simple.  They 
were  simple  country  folk  themselves.  He  was  probably  no 
simpler  than  they,  only  his  simplicity  took  such  a  different 
direction  that  they  recognized  it  as  such. 

Silas  had  always  loved  flowers.  As  he  grew  older,  and 
especially  after  his  mother's  death,  when  all  direct  human 
interest  was  gone,  the  love  of  them  turned  his  whole  self. 
He  was  natural  enough  to  grasp  after  some  absorbing  inter- 


198  A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 

est,  and  his  gentle  taste  seemed  to  point  that  way  the  easi 
est  ;  and  he  might  have  turned  a  worse  way,  though  it  might 
have  been  a  nobler  one,  than  into  beds  of  lilies  and  thick 
ets  of  roses.  He  was  so  fond  of  his  dainty  pursuit  that  it 
was  only  very  dimly  that  he  felt  the  need  of  anything  else. 
» He  ruminated  so  heartily  and  long  over  his  flowers  that  it 
'  might  have  been  with  him  as  with  Marvel's  fawn,  "  Lilies 
|  without,  roses  within."  His  very  thoughts  might  have  been 
'tinctured;  he  thought  principally  of  his  flowers,  and  his 
brain  was  full  of  true  images  of  roses  and  lilies  and  apple- 
blossoms. 

But  now  he  began  to  think  of  Althea.  After  she  came 
for  the  parsnips  she  slid  continually  into  his  mind  along 
with  the  flowers.  He  hoped  every  day  her  mother  would 
send  her  again  on  some  errand,  but  she  did  not.  .  Silas, 
without  knowing  that  he  did  so,  watched  and  waited  every 
day  for  her.  Finally,  after  a  week  or  so,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  Althea's  mother  might  like  more  parsnips. 

So  he  carried  her  a  great  basketful.  After  he  had  gone 
— he  would  not  come  into  the  house,  but  lingered  a  mo 
ment  in  the  yard  looking  wishfully  at  Althea,  who  stood  in 
the  door  behind  her  mother — Mrs.  Rose  eyed  her  daugh 
ter  knowingly  and  sharply. 

"  Silas  Vinton  didn't  come  to  bring  me  parsnips,"  said  she. 

Althea  looked  up  at  her,  frightened.  She  still  stood  a 
few  paces  behind  her  mother ;  it  was  her  way.  If  they 
were  out  on  the  street  together  Althea  followed  after  her 
always.  When  her  mother  attempted  to  face  her,  Althea 
always  stirred  softly  round  behind  her. 

"  He  came  to  see  you,"  said  her  mother,  turning  round 
again.  Althea  turned  too,  and  looked  more  scared  than  be 
fore,  and  made  some  unintelligible  dissent. 


A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS.  !99 

"Yes,  he  did,"  said  her  mother;  "don't  you  contradict 
me,  Althea !" 

It  was  easy  enough,  after  seeing  Mrs.  Rose,  to  understand 
how  the  daughter  got  her  peculiarities.  The  mother  had 
moulded  the  daughter  after  her  own  model  as  exactly  as 
she  could,  and  more  exactly  than  she  was  herself  aware. 
Mrs.  Rose  in  her  youth  must  have  looked  very  like  Althea. 
She  wore  her  light,  partly  gray  hair  cut  squarely  around 
her  ears,  just  like  Althea's ;  her  dress  had  the  same  prim, 
uncompromising  cut. 

She  was  arbitrary,  and  full  of  a  self-confidence  that  was  ab 
solute  power,  and  so  was  Althea.  But  the  girl  had  not  yet 
shown  her  disposition;  her  mother,  by  her  older,  stronger 
will,  and  force  of  habit,  as  yet  kept  her  down.  She  only 
rebelled  furtively.  The  stern  rule  she  had  always  been 
under  gave  her  a  shy,  almost  cowed,  demeanor ;  once  in  a 
while  the  spirit  in  her  gave  a  flash,  as  it  were,  and  that  was 
all. 

The  two  were  alone ;  they  had  no  relatives.  They  had 
a  small  pension  to  live  on,  and  owned  a  small  house  besides. 
Mrs.  Rose's  husband  had  died  in  the  army.  They  never 
called  on  the  neighbors,  and  the  neighbors  never  called  on 
them.  "  Queer  folks,"  they  called  them. 

Mrs.  Rose's  opinion  seemed  fortified  when  Silas  came 
the  next  Sunday  night,  and  made  a  call. 

He  went  to  evening  meeting  first,  and  then  walked  clown 
the  shadowy  road  towards  the  Rose  house.  The  Roses 
were  not  meeting-folks,  and  he  could  not  walk  home  with 
Althea,  and  so  break  the  ice.  However,  Silas  was  not  bash 
ful.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  realized  he  was  going  courting  at 
all.  He  had  a  great  bunch  of  flowers  in  his  hand,  and  he 
was  merely  going  to  carry  them  to  Althea ;  he  did  not  look 


200  A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 

much  beyond  that.     His  horizon,  blue  and  sunny  though  it 
was,  came  close  around  him  always. 

So  he  sat  in  Mrs.  Rose's  sitting-room  that  evening,  and 
eyed  Althea  sweetly  and  kindly,  but  was  not  perturbed, 
though  he  said  very  little. 

"  He's  comin'  after  you,  Althea,"  said  her  mother,  after 
he  had  gone. 

Althea,  slinking  behind  her  mother,  burst  into  tears. 
/'What  are  you  crying  for?1'  asked  her  mother,  sharply. 
I  "  I- — don't  want  him  to." 

"  Get  your  candle  and  go  to  bed." 

Silas  came  regularly  every  Sunday  evening  after  that, 
but  he  met  with  an  obstacle  in  his  wooing  which  might 
have  nonplussed  some  lovers — the  mother  always  stayed  in 
the  room  when  he  called.  There  she  would  sit,  straight  and 
fiercely  watchful,  her  bushy  short  hair  curving  around  her 
ears.  However,  Silas  was  not  annoyed.  The  need  of  a 
formal  declaration  never  suggested  itself  to  him  •  he  sup 
posed  Althea  knew,  and  there  was  no  need  of  saying  much 
about  it  anyway.  It  would  have  puzzled  any  one  to  have 
told  Althea's  opinion  when  Silas's  attentions  became  per 
sistent  ;  she  was  shy  and  docile,  but  never  expressive.  Still 
it  was  all  right  with  Silas,  as  long  as  she  did  not  repulse 
him.  He  had  had  so  much  to  do  with  flowers  that  he  de 
rived  his  notions  of  girls  from  them.  He  did  not  look  for 
much  return  but  sweetness  and  silence. 

At  last  Mrs.  Rose  grew  impatient.  Spring  had  come 
round  again,  and  Silas  had  visited  Althea  a  whole  year,  and 
still  nothing  decisive  had  been  said.  She  could  not  see 
why.  It  was  singular  that  with  her  keen  character  she 
should  have  been  so  stupid,  but  she  was.  She  did  not 
dream  that  her  own  watchfulness  and  intense  interest  might 
delay  matters. 


A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS.  2oi 

One  night  she  spoke  out  bluntly  when  he  was  taking 
leave.  "Look  here,  Silas  Vinton,  I  think  if  you  an'  Althea 
are  goin'  to  git  married,  you  might  as  well  be  about  it !" 

"  I'm  ready  when  Althea  is,"  said  Silas.  He  gave  one 
glance  over  at  her  behind  her  mother/then  he  did  not  dare 
to  look  again.  He  was  outwardly  calm,  but  the  shock  of 
Mrs.  Rose's  sudden  remark  was  over  his  very  soul.  He; 
felt  as  if  he  were  still  in  paradise,  but  as  if  some  angel  had 
given  him  a  rude  shake. 

"Oh,  she's  ready  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Rose.  ."She  don't 
need  to  have  anything  more'n  a  new  dress,  an'  we  can  make 
that  in  a  week." 

"A  week?"  repeated  Silas,  half  in  rapture,  half  in  stupid 
ity.  "  Well,  I'm  all  ready  when  Althea  is.  I'm  all  ready." 
He  kept  saying  it  over  as  he  backed  down  the  steps. 

"I'll  git  the  stuff  for  the  dress  to-morrow,  then,"  called 
Mrs.  Rose  after  him,  standing  in  the  door. 

"I'm  all  ready  when  Althea  is,"  Silas's  voice  answered 
out  of  the  darkness. 

As  for  Althea,  when  the  door  closed  after  him  she  began 
to  cry.  Her  mother  turned  round  and  saw  her. 

"What  air  you  cryin'  for!"  she  demanded. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  don't  want  to  get  married  in  a  week.  I 
won't!  So!" 

"  Althea  Rose,"  said  her  mother,  "  if  you  don't  quit  cryin', 
an'  light  your  candle,  an'  go  to  bed  an'  behave  yourself,  I'll 
shake  you  !" 

And  Althea  lit  her  candle  and  went.  The  old  whip- 
crack  was  too  much  for  her.  But  when  she  was  in  her  room 
alone,  she  clinched  her  fists,  and  shook  her  stubborn  head 
at  herself  in  her  little  looking-glass. 

"  I  won't,"  muttered  she.     "  So  /" 


202  A  LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 

The  next  morning  the  trees  were  all  in  blossom,  and 
Silas  was  out  in  his  garden  working.  He  was  all  over  his 
excitement  of  last  night.  His  mind  was  running  in  the 
larger  circle  into  which  Mrs.  Rose's  proposal,  like  a  stone 
in  a  pond,  had  thrown  it,  just  as  calmly  as  it  had  in  a 
smaller.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  always  been  going  to  be 
married  in  a  week. 

"It's  jest  such  a  mornin'  as  'twas  last  year,"  said  he, 
"  when  I  counted  her  in  after  the  daffodils." 

"  Silas!" 

"Why,  Althea, you've  come  ag'in  !" 

She  was  flushed  and  trembling,  but  her  eyes  were  keen. 
"  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Silas." 

"  Why,  Althea,  what  is  it  ?" 

"You  won't  tell  mother?  Promise  you  won't  tell ;  prom 
ise — promise." 

"Course  I  won't,  if  you  don't  want  me  to.  Althea,  what 
is  it?" 

"  She'd  kill  me.     You  won't  tell  ?" 

"  No,  never,  long's  I  live  !" 

She  gave  a  scared  glance  around  her.  "  Mother's  mak 
ing  me  marry  you,"  said  she,  bluntly,  "  an'  I  don't  want 
to." 

"Oh,  Althea!" 

"It's  the  truth." 

Silas  stood  staring  at  her  pitifully.  "  You  was  so  afraid 
of  her  you  didn't  dare  say  anything,  weren't  you  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  I  was." 

"  You  poor  little  thing  !"  Great  tears  ran  down  Silas's 
cheeks. 

"  Then  I  needn't  marry  you,  need  I  ?" 

"Course  you  needn't." 


A  LOVER   OF  FLOWERS, 


203 


"  Well,  how  can  we  fix  it  ?  You  know  we've  got  to  tell 
mother  something." 

"  I  guess  I  don't  know  just  what  you  mean." 

"Mother'll  make  an  awful  fuss;  she's  set  on  my  having 
you ;  she  thinks  you've  got  property.  An'  if  she  knew  I 
was  the  one  that  broke  it  off  she'd  kill  me.  You've  got  to 
make  her  think  you're  the  one." 

"But  I  ain't." 

"  That  don't  make  any  difference ;  you've  got  to  make 
her  think  so." 

"  But  what  shall  I  say  the  reason  was  ?" 

"Say  you've  thought  it  over,  and  you  don't  want  to  sup 
port  a  wife.  She'll  believe  that.  They  all  know  your  father 
was  awful  tight." 

The  bewilderment  in  Silas's  face  almost  obscured  its  aw 
ful  sadness. 

"  You  won't  let  her  blame  me,  anyhow,  will  you,  Silas  ?" 

"No;  she  sha'n't  blame  you.  I'll  tell  lies  before  she 
shall  blame  you." 

"You  are  awful  good,  Silas.  Say, you  don't  mind  much, 
do  you  ?" 

"No.  Don't  think  nothin'  about  me;  I  sha'n't  mind; 
I've  got  my  flowers.  Althea — " 

"What?" 

"I  don't  know  as  you'll  want  to;  I  jest  happened  to  think 
of  it,  that's  all.  You  know  folks,  when  they  are  goin'  to  get 
married,  the  way  we  was,  kiss  each  other.  You  ain't  ever 
kissed  me.  I  never  thought  much  about  wantin'  you  to  till 
now,  when  you  are  goin'.  Would  you  mind  it  to  kiss  me 
once?  I  don't  suppose  you  will  want  to — " 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  said  Althea ;  and  she  put  up  her  sweet 
face  and  kissed  him. 


204  A   LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 

He  choked  back  a  sob.  "  You'd  better  go  now,"  said  he, 
"or  your  mother'll  be  wonderin'  where  you  are." 

She  looked  frightened.  "You  be  sure  not  to  let  her 
blame  me,"  she  said  as  she  turned  to  go. 

"  Yes,  I'll  be  sure.     Don't  you  worry,  Althea." 
'     She  disappeared  among  the  filmy  green  bushes,  and  he 
sat  down  on  a  stone  under  the  cherry-tree,  and  held  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

When  he  got  up  he  looked  older.  Sorrow  at  one  jerk 
had  taken  him  farther  out  of  his  long  childhood  than  the 
years  had.  He  was  a  step  nearer  the  rest  of  the  world  ; 
he  would  not  be  so  odd,  by  that  much,  again.  He  went 
up  through  the  garden  to  the  house ;  he  looked  about 
him  wonderingly  as  he  went.  "Thar's  been  an  awful 
change,"  said  he,  to  himself.  "I  guess  I  don't  see 
straight.  The  flowers  an'  things  look  queer,  as  if  I  hadn't 
seen  'em  before.  It's  worse  than  mother's  dyin'.  Thar 
ain't  so  much  God  in  this.  I  don't  know  how  to  go  to 
work  to  stan'  it.  Poor  little  thing !  she  sha'n't  have  no 
more  trouble  about  it,  nohow." 

Very  close  to  the  Rose  house  stood  another,  tiny  and 
modest  and  white-curtained ;  but  it  had  an  eye  and  an  ear 
ever  alert  in  it.  The  woman  who  lived  there  was  sickly, 
with  too  active  a  mind  for  her  own  narrow  life,  so  she  fast 
ened  it  on  her  neighbors. 

This  last  evening,  when  Silas  went  to  the  Roses  she  knew 

it,  as  usual.     When,  by  and  by,  she  heard   loud  talk,  she 

raised  her  window  softly  and  listened.     The  front  door  of 

'the  Rose  house  was  evidently  open,  and  the  talkers  were 

standing  in  the  hall. 

She  could  hear  only  one  voice  to  distinguish  the  words; 
that  was  Mrs.  Rose's.  When  she  was  excited  she  always 


A  LOVER   OF  FLOWERS. 


205 


spoke  very  loud.  "You're  worse  than  your  father  was," 
the  listener  heard  her  say,  "  an'  he  was  tighter  than  the 
bark  of  a  tree ;  but  he  wa'n't  quite  so  mean  but  what  he 
could  get  married.  Althea's  well  rid  of  such  a  poor  stick 
as  you.  Don't  s'pose  she'd  hed  'nough  to  eat  if  you'd  mar 
ried  her,  nor  a  dress  to  her  back." 

The  loud  talk  kept  on,  and  the  woman  listened  greedily. 
When  it  had  ceased,  and  Silas  had  crept  down  the  path, 
and  the  door  had  closed  behind  him  with  a  great  house- 
shaking  slam,  she  felt  more  healthily  alive  than  she  had  for 
many  a  day. 

Soon  all  the  town  knew  how  Silas  Vinton  had  jilted 
Althea  Rose — because  he  was  too  tight  to  support  her. 
His  courtship  had  made  a  deal  of  laughing  comment ;  now 
he  was  mercilessly  badgered. 

He  shut  himself  up  with  his  flowers  and  bore  it  as  well 
as  he  could.  Once  a  neighbor  to  whom  he  had  given  veg 
etables  many  a  time,  offered  him  pay.  That  almost  broke 
his  heart.  Then  others  no  longer  asked  for  them,  and  he 
understood  why. 

He  never  met  Althea  at  all.  For  the  next  two  years,  ex 
cept  for  one  or  two  glimpses  of  her  from  his  window,  he 
would  hardly  have  known  she  lived  in  the  same  town. 

In  the  winter  of  the  second  year,  a  man  who  came  to  his 
house  on  an  errand  asked  him  if  he  knew  his  old  girl  was 
going  to  be  married. 

Silas  turned  white.  "What  do  you  mean?"  asked 
he. 

"  Althea  Rose  is  goin'  to  get  married,  if  the  fellar  don't 
back  out  'cause  he  don't  want  to  support  her.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  I'm  glad,  if  she  likes  him,"  said  SUas. 


206  A  LOVER  OF  FLOWERS. 

"  Well,  mebbe  when  he  comes  to  count  up  the  cost  he'll 
think  better  on't." 

Silas  made  no  reply  to  the  taunt.  He  stood  behind  his 
window-shelves  of  plants,  and  watched  the  man  go  down 
the  sidewalk.  "  I  don't  wonder  he  talks  so,"  said  he.  "  But 
there  wa'n't  no  other  way  to  save  her.  I  had  to  have  some 
reason.  The  worst  of  it  is,  it  ain't  true." 

Silas's  potted  plants  were  very  beautiful  that  year,  they 
were  covered  with  blossoms.  Every  one  stopped  to  look  at 
his  windows. 

Silas  sat  behind  them  that  day  after  he  heard  the  news, 
and  watched  the  street.  He  was  hoping  Althea  would  go 
by ;  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

She  did  come  in  sight  towards  night — a  slender,  girlish 
figure,  in  some  prim,  eccentric  winter  garb,  as  noticeable  as 
her  summer  one. 

Silas  ran  to  the  door.     "Althea!" 

"  What  ?"  said  she,  standing  at  the  gate. 

He  went  down  the  steps  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  See  here,  Althea.  I  heard  this  morning  you  was  going 
to  get  married.  Is  it  so  ?" 

Althea  looked  down.     "  Yes." 

"  I  jest  want  to  know — it's  safe  for  you  to  tell  me,  Althea ; 
I'd  die  sooner  than  anybody  should  know.  I  jest  want  to 
know  if  it's  all  right  this  time  ;  if  you  want  him,  or  it's  your 
mother  making  you,  the  way  it  was  before.  'Cause,  if  it  is, 
don't  you  marry  him.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  your  mother ; 
I'll  stan'  by  you." 

"I— guess  it's  all  right,  Silas." 

"Then  your  mother  ain't  making  you?  Don't  you  be 
afraid  to  tell." 

"  No,  she  ain't.  She  couldn't,  really.  I'd  manage  some 
how,  the  way  I  did  before,  if  I  didn't  want  him." 


A   LOVER  OF  FLOWERS.  207 

"  I'm  glad  it's  all  right,  Althea." 

She  giggled  softly.  She  was  fingering  a  gold  locket  which 
she  wore  outside  of  her  shawl.  "  See  what  a  pretty  locket 
he  give  me,"  said  she  ;  "  he's  real  generous." 

"  She  didn't  mean  to  hurt  me  when  she  said  that,  I  know," 
said  Silas,  when  she  had  gone  on  and  he  was  back  in  the 
house.  And  he  was  right,  she  did  not ;  that  time  she  was 
only  a  cat's-paw  for  a  scratch  of  fate. 

She  was  married  a  couple  of  weeks  later.  On  the  after 
noon  of  the  wedding-day  one  of  the  neighbor's  children 
came  in  to  see  Silas.  She  was  a  pretty  little  thing,  and  he 
was  very  fond  of  her.  She  used  to  tease  her  mother  to  let 
her  go  over  to  Silas's. 

When  she  entered  Silas's  little  front  room  to-day  the  first 
thing  she  did  was  to  stare  at  the  plants  in  the  window.  Ev 
ery  blossom  was  gone. 

"Why,  Silas,"  she  piped  up,  " where's  all  your  flowers?" 

"  They've  gone  to  a  weddin',  deary,"  said  Silas. 


A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY. 

THE  clothes-line  was  wound  securely  around  the  trunks 
of  four  gnarled,  crooked  old  apple-trees,  which  stood  pro 
miscuously  about  the  yard  back  of  the  cottage.  It  was  tree- 
blossoming  time,  but  these  were  too  aged  and  sapless  to 
blossom  freely,  and  there  was  only  a  white  bough  here 
and  there  shaking  itself  triumphantly  from  among  the 
rest,  which  had  only  their  new  green  leaves.  There  was  a 
branch  occasionally  which  had  not  even  these,  but  pierced 
the  tender  green  and  the  flossy  white  in  hard,  gray  naked 
ness.  All  over  the  yard,  the  grass  was  young  and  green 
and  short,  and  had  not  yet  gotten  any  feathery  heads. 
Once  in  a  while  there  was  a  dandelion  set  closely  down 
among  it. 

The  cottage  was  low,  of  a  dark-red  color,  with  white  fac 
ings  around  the  windows,  which  had  no  blinds,  only  green 
paper  curtains. 

The  back  door  was  in  the  centre  of  the  house,  and  opened 
directly  into  the  green  yard,  with  hardly  a  pretence  of  a 
step,  only  a  flat,  oval  stone  before  it. 

Through  this  door,  stepping  cautiously  on  the  stone,  came 
presently  two  tall,  lank  women  in  chocolate-colored  calico 
gowns,  with  a  basket  of  clothes  between  them.  They  set 
the  basket  underneath  the  line  on  the  grass,  with  a  little 


A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY.  209 

clothes-pin  bag  beside  it,  and  then  proceeded  methodically 
to  hang  out  the  clothes.  Everything  of  a  kind  went  to 
gether,  and  the  best  things  on  the  outside  line,  which  could 
be  seen  from  the  street  in  front  of  the  cottage. 

The  two  women  were  curiously  alike.  They  were  about 
the  same  height,  and  moved  in  the  same  way.  Even  their 
faces  were  so  similar  in  feature  and  expression  that  it  might 
have  been  a  difficult  matter  to  distinguish  between  them. 
All  the  difference,  and  that  would  have  been  scarcely  ap 
parent  to  an  ordinary  observer,  was  a  difference  of  degree, 
if  it  might  be  so  expressed.  In  one  face  the  features  were 
both  bolder  and  sharper  in  outline,  the  eyes  were  a  trifle 
larger  and  brighter,  and  the  whole  expression  more  ani 
mated  and  decided  than  in  the  other. 

One  woman's  scanty  drab  hair  was. a  shade  darker  than 
the  other's,  and  the  negative  fairness  of  complexion,  which 
generally  accompanies  drab  hair,  was  in  one  relieved  by  a 
slight  tinge  of  warm  red  on  the  cheeks. 

This  slightly  intensified  woman  had  been  commonly  con 
sidered  the  more  attractive  of  the  two,  although  in  reality 
there  was  very  little  to  choose  between  the  personal  appear 
ance  of  these  twin  sisters,  Priscilla  and  Mary  Brown.  They 
moved  about  the  clothes-line,  pinning  the  sweet  white  linen 
on  securely,  their  thick,  white-stockinged  ankles  showing 
beneath  their  limp  calicoes  as  they  stepped,  and  their  large 
feet  in  cloth  slippers  flattening  down  the  short,  green  grass. 
Their  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  displaying  their  long,  thin, 
muscular  arms,  which  were  sharply  pointed  at  the  elbows. 

They  were  homely  women  ;  they  were  fifty  and  over  now,j 
but  they  never  could  have  been  pretty  in  their  teens,  their] 
features  were  too  irredeemably  irregular  for  that.  No 
youthful  freshness  of  complexion  or  expression  could  have 


2io  A  FAR- A  WA  Y  MELOD  Y. 

possibly  clone  away  with  the  impression  that  they  gave. 
Their  plainness  had  probably  only  been  enhanced  by  the 
contrast,  and  these  women,  to  people  generally,  seemed  bet 
ter-looking  than  when  they  were  young.  There  was  an 
honesty  and  patience  in  both  faces  that  showed  all  the 
plainer  for  their  homeliness. 

One,  the  sister  with  the  darker  hair,  moved  a  little  quicker 
than  the  other,  and  lifted  the  wet  clothes  from  the  basket  to 
the  line  more  frequently.  She  was  the  first  to  speak,  too, 
after  they  had  been  hanging  out  the  clothes  for  some  little 
time  in  silence.  She  stopped  as  she  did  so,  with  a  wet  pil 
low-case  in  her  hand,  and  looked  up  reflectively  at  the 
flowering  apple-boughs  overhead,  and  the  blue  sky  showing 
between,  while  the  sweet  spring  wind  ruffled  her  scanty  hair 
a  little. 

"  I  wonder,  Mary,"  said  she,  "  if  it  would  seem  so  very 
queer  to  die  a  mornin'  like  this,  say.  Don't  you  believe 
jthere's  apple  branches  a-hangin'  over  them  walls  made  out 
of  precious  stones,  like  these,  only  there  ain't  any  dead 
limbs  among  'em,  an'  they're  all  covered  thick  with  flowers? 
An'  I  wonder  if  it  would  seem  such  an  awful  change  to  go 
'from  this  air  into  the  air  of  the  New  Jerusalem."  Just  then 
'a  robin  hidden  somewhere  in  the  trees  began  to  sing.  "I 
s'pose,"  she  went  on,  "  that  there's  angels  instead  of  robins, 
though,  and  they  don't  roost  up  in  trees  to  sing,  but  stand 
on  the  ground,  with  lilies  growin'  round  their  feet,  maybe, 
up  to  their  knees,  or  on  the  gold  stones  in  the  street,  an' 
play  on  their  harps  to  go  with  the  singin'." 

The  other  sister  gave  a  scared,  awed  look  at  her.  "Lor, 
don't  talk  that  way,  sister,"  said  she.  "  What  has  got  into 
you  lately  ?  You  make  me  crawl  all  over,  talkin'  so  much 
about  dyin'.  You  feel  well,  don't  you  ?" 


A   FAR- A  WA  Y  MELOD  Y.  211 

"  Lor,  yes,"  replied  the  other,  laughing,  and  picking  up  a 
clothes-pin  for  her  pillow-case;  "I  feel  well  enough,  an'  I 
don't  know  what  has  got  me  to  talkin'  so  much  about  dyin' 
lately,  or  thinkin'  about  it.  I  guess  it's  the  spring  weather. 
P'r'aps  flowers  growin'  make  anybody  think  of  wings 
sproutin'  kinder  naterally.  I  won't  talk  so  much  about  it 
if  it  bothers  you,  an'  I  don't  know  but  it's  sorter  nateral  it 
should.  Did  you  get  the  potatoes  before  we  came  out, 
sister  ?" — with  an  awkward  and  kindly  effort  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  stooping  over  the  clothes-basket. 
There  was  such  a  film  of  tears  in  her  dull  blue  eyes  that 
she  could  not  distinguish  one  article  from  another. 

"Well,  I  guess  you  had  better  go  in  an'  get  'em,  then  ; 
they  ain't  worth  anything,  this  time  of  year,  unless  they  soak 
a  while,  an'  I'll  finish  hangin'  out  the  clothes  while  you  do 
it." 

"Well,  pYaps  I'd  better,"  the  other  woman  replied, 
straightening  herself  up  from  the  clothes-basket.  Then 
she  went  into  the  house  without  another  word ;  but  down 
in  the  damp  cellar,  a  minute  later,  she  sobbed  over  the 
potato  barrel  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Her  sister's  re 
marks  had  filled  her  with  a  vague  apprehension  and  grief 
which  she  could  not  throw  off.  And  there  was  something 
a  little  singular  about  it.  Both  these  women  had  always 
been  of  a  deeply  religious  cast  of  mind.  They  had  studied 
the  Bible  faithfully,  if  not  understandingly,  and  their  relig 
ion  had  strongly  tinctured  their  daily  life.  They  knew  a!4 


most  as  much  about  the  Old  Testament  prophets  as  they 
did  about  their  neighbors  ;  and  that  was  saying  a  good  deal 
of  two  single  women  in  a  New  England  country  town.  Still 
this  religious  element  in  their  natures  could  hardly  have 


212  A  FAR- AWAY  MELOD Y. 

been  termed  spirituality.  It  deviated  from  that  as  much 
as  anything  of  religion — which  is  in  one  way  spirituality 
itself — could. 

Both  sisters  were  eminently  practical  in  all  affairs  of  life, 
down  to  their  very  dreams,  and  Priscilla  especially  so.  She 
had  dealt  in  religion  with  the  bare  facts  of  sin  and  repent 
ance,  future  punishment  and  reward.  She  had  dwelt  very 
little,  probably,  upon  the  poetic  splendors  of  the  Eternal 
City,  and  talked  about  them  still  less.  Indeed,  she  had 
always  been  reticent  about  her  religious  convictions,  and 
had  said  very  little  about  them  even  to  her  sister. 

The  two  women,  with  God  in  their  thoughts  every  mo 
ment,  seldom  had  spoken  his  name  to  each  other.  For  Pris 
cilla  to  talk  in  the  strain  that  she  had  to-day,  and  for  a 
week  or  two  previous,  off  and  on,  was,  from  its  extreme  de 
viation  from  her  usual  custom,  certainly  startling. 

Poor  Mary,  sobbing  over  the  potato  barrel,  thought  it 
was  a  sign  of  approaching,  death.  She  had  a  few  super- 
stitious-like  grafts  upon  her  practical,  commonplace  char 
acter. 

She  wiped  her  eyes  finally,  and  went  up-stairs  with  her 
tin  basin  of  potatoes,  which  were  carefully  washed  and  put 
to  soak  by  the  time  her  sister  came  in  with  the  empty 
basket. 

At  twelve  exactly  the  two  sat  down  to  dinner  in  the 
clean  kitchen,  which  was  one  of  the  two  rooms  the  cottage 
boasted.  The  narrow  entry  ran  from  the  front  door  to  the 
back.  On  one  side  was  the  kitchen  and  living-room ;  on 
the  other,  the  room  where  the  sisters  slept.  There  were 
two  small  unfinished  lofts  overhead,  reached  by  a  step-lad 
der  through  a  little  scuttle  in  the  entry  ceiling:  and  that 
was  all.  The  sisters  had  earned  the  cottage  and  paid 


A    FAR-AWAY  MELODY.  213 

for  it  years  before,  by  working  as  tailoresses.  They  had,"; 
besides,  quite  a  snug  little  sum  in  the  bank,  which  they  had 
saved  out  of  their  hard  earnings.  There  was  no  need  for 
Priscilla  and  Mary  to  work  so  hard,  people  said  ;  but  work 
hard  they  did,  and  work  hard  they  would  as  long  as  they 
lived.  The  mere  habit  of  work  had  become  as  necessary 
to  them  as  breathing. 

Just  as  soon  as  they  had  finished  their  meal  and  cleared 
away  the  dishes,  they  put  on  some  clean  starched  purple 
prints,  which  were  their  afternoon  dresses,  and  seated  them 
selves  with  their  work  at  the  two  front  windows  ;  the  house 
faced  southwest,  so  the  sunlight  streamed  through  both.  It 
was  a  very  warm  day  for  the  season,  and  the  windows  were 
open.  Close  to  them  in  the  yard  outside  stood  great  clumps 
of  lilac  bushes.  They  grew  on  the  other  side  of  the  front 
door  too ;  a  little  later  the  low  cottage  would  look  half- 
buried  in  them.  The  shadows  of  their  leaves  made  a 
dancing  net-work  over  the  freshly  washed  yellow  floor. 

The  two  sisters  sat  there  and  sewed  on  some  coarse  vests 
all  the  afternoon.  Neither  made  a  remark  often.  The 
room,  with  its  glossy  little  cooking-stove,  its  eight-day  clock 
on  the  mantel,  its  chintz-cushioned  rocking-chairs,  and  the 
dancing  shadows  of  the  lilac  leaves  on  its  yellow  floor, 
looked  pleasant  and  peaceful. 

Just  before  six  o'clock  a  neighbor  dropped  in  with  her 
cream  pitcher  to  borrow  some  milk  for  tea,  and  she  sat 
down  for  a  minute's  chat  after  she  had  got  it  filled.  They 
had  been  talking  a  few  moments  on  neighborhood  topics, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  Priscilla  let  her  work  fall  and  raised 
her  hand.  "  Hush  !"  whispered  she. 

The  other  two  stopped  talking,  and  listened,  staring  at 
her  wonderingly,  but  they  could  hear  nothing. 


214  A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY. 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Priscilla?"  asked  the  neighbor,  with 
round  blue  eyes.  She  was  a  pretty  young  thing,  who  had 
not  been  married  long. 

"  Hush  !  Don't  speak.  Don't  you  hear  that  beautiful 
music  ?"  Her  ear  was  inclined  towards  the  open  window, 
her  hand  still  raised  warningly,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
opposite  wall  beyond  them. 

Mary  turned  visibly  paler  than  her  usual  dull  paleness, 
and  shuddered.  "  I  don't  hear  any  music,"  she  said.  "  Do 
you,  Miss  Moore?" 

"  No-o,"  replied  the  caller,  her  simple  little  face  begin 
ning  to  put  on  a  scared  look,  from  a  vague  sense  of  a  mys 
tery  she  could  not  fathom. 

Mary  Brown  rose  and  went  to  the  door,  and  looked 
eagerly  up  and  down  the  street.  "There  ain't  no  organ- 
man  in  sight  anywhere,"  said  she,  returning,  "an'  I  can't 
hear  any  music,  an'  Miss  Moore  can't,  an'  we're  both  sharp 
enough  o'  hearing'.  You're  jest  imaginin'  it,  sister." 

"I  never  imagined   anything  in  my  life,"  returned   the 
other,  "  an'  it  ain't  likely  I'm  goin'  to  begin  now.     It's  the 
beautifu/est  music.     It  comes  from  over  the  orchard  there. 
Can't  you  hear  it  ?     But  it  seems  to  me  it's  growin'  a  little  * 
fainter  like  now.     I  guess  it's  movin'  off,  perhaps." 

Mary  Brown  set  her  lips  hard.  The  grief  and  anxiety 
she  had  felt  lately  turned  suddenly  to  unreasoning  anger 
against  the  cause  of  it ;  through  her  very  love  she  fired 
with  quick  wrath  at  the  beloved  object.  Still  she  did  not 
say  much,  only,  "I  guess  it  must  be  movin'  off,"  with  a 
laugh,  which  had  an  unpleasant  ring  in  it. 

After  the  neighbor  had  gone,  however,  she  said  more, 
standing  before  her  sister  with  her  arms  folded  squarely 
across  her  bosom.  "  Now,  Priscilla  Brown,"  she  exclaimed, 


A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY.  215 

"I  think  it's  about  time  to  put  a  stop  to  this.  I've  heard 
about  enough  of  it.  What  do  you  s'pose  Miss  Moore 
thought  of  you  ?  Next  thing  it  '11  be  all  over  town  that 
you're  gettin'  spiritual  notions.  To-day  it's  music  that  no 
body  else  can  hear,  an'  yesterday  you  smelled  roses,  and 
there  ain't  one  in  blossom  this  time  o'  year,  and  all  the  time 
you're  talkin'  about  dyin'.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  why 
you  ain't  as  likely  to  live  as  I  am.  You're  uncommon 
hearty  on  vittles.  You  ate  a  pretty  good  dinner  to-day  for 
a  dyin'  person." 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  goin'  to  die,"  replied  Priscilla, 
meekly :  the  two  sisters  seemed  suddenly  to  have  changed 
natures.  "  An'  I'll  try  not  to  talk  so,  if  it  plagues  you.  I 
told  you  I  wouldn't  this  mornin',  but  the  music  kinder  took 
me  by  surprise  like,  an'  I  thought  maybe  you  an'  Miss 
Moore  could  hear  it.  I  can  jest  hear  it  a  little  bit  now,  like 
the  dyin'  away  of  a  bell." 

"  There  you  go  agin  !"  cried  the  other,  sharply.  "  Do, 
for  mercy's  sake,  stop,  Priscilla.  There  ain't  no  music." 

"Well,  I  won't  talk  any  more  about  it,"  she  answered, 
patiently;  and  she  rose  and  began  setting  the  table  for  tea, 
while  Mary  sat  down  and  resumed  her  sewing,  drawing  the 
thread  through  the  cloth  with  quick,  uneven  jerks. 

That  night  the  pretty  girl  neighbor  was  aroused  from  her 
first  sleep  by  a  distressed  voice  at  her  bedroom  window, 
crying,  "  Mi'ss  Moore  !  Miss  Moore  !" 

She  spoke  to  her  husband,  who  opened  the  window. 
"What's  wanted?"  he  asked,  peering  out  into  the  dark 
ness: 

"Priscilla's  sick,"  moaned  the  distressed  voice;  "awful 
sick.  She's  fainted,  an'  I  can't  bring  her  to.  Go  for  the 
doctor — quick  !  quick  !  quick  !  The  voice  ended  in  a  shriek 


2i6  A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY. 

on  the.  last  word,  and  the  speaker  turned  and  ran  back  to 
the  cottage,  where,  on  the  bed,  lay  a  pale,  gaunt  woman, 
who  had  not  stirred  since  she  left  it.  Immovable  through 
all  her  sister's  agony,  she  lay  there,  her  features  shaping 
themselves  out  more  and  more  from  the  shadows,  the  bed 
clothes  that  covered  her  limbs  taking  on  an  awful  rigidity. 

"  She  must  have  died  in  her  sleep,"  the  doctor  said,  when 
he  came,  "  without  a  struggle." 

When  Mary  Brown  really  understood  that  her  sister  was 
dead,  she  left  her  to  the  kindly  ministrations  of  the  good 
women  who  are  always  ready  at  such  times  in  a  country 
place,  and  went  and  sat  by  the  kitchen  window  in  the  chair 
which  her  sister  had  occupied  that  afternoon. 

There  the  women  found  her  when  the  last  offices  had 
been  done  for  the  dead. 

"  Come  home  with  me  to-night,"  one  said  ;  "  Miss  Green 
will  stay  with  her"  with  a  turn  of  her  head  towards  the 
opposite  room,  and  an  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  which 
distinguished  it  at  once  from  one  applied  to  a  living  per 
son. 

"  No,"  said  Mary  Brown  ;  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  set  here  an' 
listen."  She  had  the  window  wide  open,  leaning  her  head 
out  into  the  chilly  night  air. 

The  women  looked  at  each  other;  one  tapped  her  head, 

another  nodded  hers.     "Poor  thing!"  said  a  third. 

/""    "  You  see,"  went  on  Mary  Brown,  still  speaking  with  her 

/     head  leaned  out  of  the  window,  "  I  was  cross  with  her  this 

afternoon  because  she  talked  about  hearin'  music.     I  was 

v    cross,  an'  spoke  up  sharp  to  her,  because  I  loved  her,  but 

I  don't  think  she  knew.     I  didn't  want  to  think  she  was 

goin'  to  die,  but  she  was.     An'  she  heard  the  music.     It 

was  true.     An'  now  I'm  a-goin'  to  set  here  an'  listen  till  I 


A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY.  217 

hear  it  too,  an'  then  I'll  know  she  'ain't  laid  up  what  I  said 
agin  me,  an'  that  I'm  a-goin'  to  die  too." 

They  found  it  impossible  to  reason  with  her  •  there  she 
sat  till  morning,  with  a  pitying  woman  beside  her,  listening 
all  in  vain  for  unearthly  melody. 

Next  day  they  sent  for  a  widowed  niece  of  the  sisters,  who 
came  at  once,  bringing  her  little  boy  with  her.  She  was  a 
kindly  young  woman,  and  took  up  her  abode  in  the  little 
cottage,  and  did  the  best  she  could  for  her  poor  aunt,  who, 
it  soon  became  evident,  would  never  be  quite  herself  again. 
There  she  would  sit  at  the  kitchen  window  and  listen  day 
after  day.  She  took  a  great  fancy  to  her  niece's  little  boy, 
and  used  often  to  hold  him  in  her  lap  as  she  sat  there. 
Once  in  a  while  she  would  ask  him  if  he  heard  any  music. 
"  An  innocent  little  thing  like  him  might  hear  quicker  than 
a  hard,  unbelievin'  old  woman  like  me,"  she  told  bis  mother 
once. 

She  lived  so  for  nearly  a  year  after  her  sister  died.  It 
was  evident  that  she  failed  gradually  and  surely,  though 
there  was  no  apparent  disease.  It  seemed  to  trouble  her 
exceedingly  that  she  never  heard  the  music  she  listened  for. 
She  had  an  idea  that  she  could  not  die  unless  she  did,  and 
her  whole  soul  seemed  filled  with  longing  to  join  her  be 
loved  twin  sister,  and  be  assured  of  her  forgiveness.  This 
sister-love  was  all  she  had  ever  felt,  besides  her  love  of  God, 
in  any  strong  degree  ;  all  the  passion  of  devotion  of  which 
this  homely,  commonplace  woman  was  capable  was  centred 
in  that,  and  the  unsatisfied  strength  of  it  was  killing  her. 
The  weaker  she  grew,  the  more  earnestly  she  listened.  She 
was  too  feeble  to  sit  up,  but  she  would  not  consent  to  lie  in 
bed,  and  made  them  bolster  her  up  with  pillows  in  a  rock 
ing-chair  by  the  window.  At  last  she  died,  in-  the  spring, 


2i8  A   FAR-AWAY  MELODY. 

a  week  or  two  before  her  sister  had  the  preceding  year.  The 
season  was  a  little  more  advanced  this  year,  and  the  apple- 
trees  were  blossomed  out  further  than  they  were  then.  She 
died  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  day  before, 
her  niece  had  been  called  into  the  room  by  a  shrill  cry  of 
rapture  from  her  :  "  I've  heard  it !  I've  heard  it !"  she  cried. 
"  A  faint  sound  o'  music,  like  the  dyin'  away  of  a  bell." 


A  MORAL  EXIGENCY. 

AT  five  o'clock,  Eunice  Fairweather  went  up -stairs  to 
dress  herself  for  the  sociable  and  Christmas-tree  to  be  given 
at  the  parsonage  that  night  in  honor  of  Christmas  Eve.  She 
had  been  very  busy  all  day,  making  preparations  for  it.  She 
was  the  minister's  daughter,  and  had,  of  a  necessity,  to  take 
an  active  part  in  such  affairs. 

She  took  it,  as  usual,  loyally  and  energetically,  but  there 
had  always  been  seasons  from  her  childhood  —  and  she 
was  twenty-five  now — when  the  social  duties  to  which  she 
had  been  born  seemed  a  weariness  and  a  bore  to  her.  They 
had  seemed  so  to-day.  She  had  patiently  and  faithfully 
sewed  up  little  lace  bags  with  divers-colored  worsteds,  and 
stuffed  them  with  candy.  She  had  strung  pop-corn,  and 
marked  the  parcels  which  had  been  pouring  in  since  day 
break  from  all  quarters.  She  had  taken  her  prominent 
part  among  the  corps  of  indefatigable  women  always  pres 
ent  to  assist  on  such  occasions,  and  kept  up  her  end  of  the 
line  as  minister's  daughter  bravely.  Now,  however,  the  last 
of  the  zealous,  chattering  women  she  had  been  working 
with  had  bustled  home,  with  a  pleasant  importance  in  every 
hitch  of  her  shawled  shoulders,  and  would  not  bustle  back 
again  until  half-past  six  or  so  ;  and  the  tree,  fully  bedecked, 
stood  in  unconscious  impressiveness  in  the  parsonage  parlor. 


220  A   MORAL   EXIGENCY. 

Eunice  had  come  up-stairs  with  the  resolution  to  dress 
herself  directly  for  the  festive  occasion,  and  to  hasten  clown 
again  to  be  in  readiness  for  new  exigencies.  Her  mother 
was  delicate,  and  had  kept  her  room  all  day  in  order  to  pre 
pare  herself  for  the  evening,  her  father  was  inefficient  at 
such  times,  there  was  no  servant,  and  the  brunt  of  every 
thing  came  on  her. 

But  her  resolution  gave  way ;  she  wrapped  herself  in  an 
old  plaid  shawl  and  lay  down  on  her  bed  to  rest  a  few  min 
utes.  She  did  not  close  her  eyes,  but  lay  studying  idly  the 
familiar  details  of  the  room.  It  was  small,  and  one  side 
ran  in  under  the  eaves ;  for  the  parsonage  was  a  cottage. 
There  was  one  window,  with  a  white  cotton  curtain  trimmed 
with  tasselled  fringe,  and  looped  up  on  an  old  porcelain 
knob  with  a  picture  painted  on  it.  That  knob,  with  its  tiny 
bright  landscape,  had  been  one  of  the  pretty  wonders  of 
Eunice's  childhood.  She  looked  at  it  even  now  with  inter 
est,  and  the  marvel  and  the  beauty  of  it  had  not  wholly  de 
parted  for  her  eyes.  The  walls  of  the  little  room  had  a 
scraggly-patterned  paper  on  them.  The  first  lustre  of  it 
had  departed,  for  that  too  was  one  of  the  associates  of  Eu 
nice's  childhood,  but  in  certain  lights  there  was  a  satin 
sheen  and  a  blue  line  visible.  Blue  roses  on  a  satin  ground 
had  been  the  original  pattern.  It  had  never  been  pretty, 
but  Eunice  had  always  had  faith  in  it.  There  was  an  an 
cient  straw  matting  on  the  floor,  a  homemade  braided  rug 
before  the  cottage  bedstead,  and  one  before  the  stained- 
pine  bureau.  There  were  a  few  poor  attempts  at  adorn 
ment  on  the  walls ;  a  splint  letter-case,  a  motto  worked  in 
worsteds,  a  gay  print  of  an  eminently  proper  little  girl  hold 
ing  a  faithful  little  dog. 

This  last,  in  its  brilliant  crudeness,  was  not  a  work  of 


A  MORAL  EXIGENCY.  22T' 

art,  but  Eunice  believed  in  if.  She  was  a  conservative 
creature.  Even  after  her  year  at  the  seminary,  for  which 
money  had  been  scraped  together  five  years  ago,  she  had 
the  same  admiring  trust  in  all  the  revelations  of  her  child 
hood.  Her  home,  on  her  return  to  it,  looked  as  fair  to  her 
as  it  had  always  done ;  no  old  ugliness  which  familiarity 
had  caused  to  pass  unnoticed  before  gave  her  a  shock  of 
surprise. 

She  lay  quietly,  her  shawl  shrugged  up  over  her  face,  so 
only  her  steady,  light-brown  eyes  were  visible.  The  room 
was  drearily  cold.  She  never  had  a  fire  ;  one  in  a  sleeping- 
room  would  have  been  sinful  luxury  in  the  poor  minister's 
family.  Even  her  mother's  was  only  warmed  from  the  sit 
ting-room. 

In  sunny  weather  Eunice's  room  was  cheerful,  and  its 
look,  if  not  actually  its  atmosphere,  would  warm  one  a  little, 
for  the  windows  faced  southwest.  But  to-day  all  the  light 
had  come  through  low,  gray  clouds,  for  it  had  been  threat 
ening  snow  ever  since  morning,  and  the  room  had  been 
dismal. 

A  comfortless  dusk  was  fast  spreading  over  everything 
now.  Eunice  rose  at  length,  thinking  that  she  must  either 
dress  herself  speedily  or  go  down-stairs  for  a  candle. 

She  was  a  tall,  heavily-built  girl,  with  large,  well-formed 
feet  and  hands.  She  had  a  full  face,  and  a  thick,  colorless 
skin.  Her  features  were  coarse,  but  their  combination  af 
fected  one  pleasantly.  It  was  a  stanch,  honest  face,  with  a 
suggestion  of  obstinacy  in  it. 

She  looked  unhappily  at  herself  in  her  little  square  glass. 

as  she  brushed  out -her  hair  and  arranged  it  in  a  smooth 

twist  at  the  top  of  her  head.     It  was  not  becoming,  but  it 

was  the  way  she  had  always  done  it.     She  did  not  admire 

J5 


222  A   MORAL   EXIGENCY. 

the  effect  herself  when  the  coiffure  was  complete,  neither 
did  she  survey  her  appearance  complacently  when  she  had 
gotten  into  her  best  brown  cashmere  dress,  with  its  ruffle  of 
starched  lace  in  the  neck.  But  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that 
any  change  could  be  made  for  the  better.  It  was  her  best 
dress,  and  it  was  the  way  she  did  up  her  hair.  She  did  not 
like  either,  but  the  simple  facts  of  them  ended  the  matter 
for  her. 

After  the  same  fashion  she  regarded  her  own  lot  in  life, 
with  a  sort  of  resigned  disapproval. 

On  account  of  her  mother's  ill-health,  she  had  been  en 
cumbered  for  the  last  five  years  with  the  numberless  social 
duties  to  which  the  wife  of  a  poor  country  minister  is  liable. 
She  had  been  active  in  Sunday-school  picnics  and  church 
sociables,  in  mission  bands  and  neighborhood  prayer-meet 
ings.  She  was  a  church  member  and  a  good  girl,  but  the 
rble  did  not  suit  her.  Still  she  accepted  it  as  inevitable, 
and  would  no  more  have  thought  of  evading  it  than  she 
would  have  thought  of  evading  life  altogether.  There  was 
about  her  an  almost  stubborn  steadfastness  of  onward 
movement  that  would  forever  keep  her  in  the  same  rut,  no 
matter  how  disagreeable  it  might  be,  unless  some  influence 
outside  of  herself  might  move  her. 

When  she  went  down-stairs,  she  found  her  mother  seated 
beside  the  sitting-room  stove,  also  arrayed  in  her  best — a 
shiny  black  silk,  long  in  the  shoulder-seams,  the  tops  of  the 
sleeves  adorned  with  pointed  caps  trimmed  with  black  vel 
vet  ribbon. 

She  looked  up  at  Eunice  as  she  entered,  a  compla 
cent  smile  on  her  long,  delicate  face;  she  thought  her 
homely,  honest- looking  daughter  charming  in  her  best 
gown. 


A   MORAL   EXIGENCY. 


223 


A  murmur  of  men's  voices  came  from  the  next  room, 
whose  door  was  closed. 

"  Father's  got  Mr.  Wilson  in  there,"  explained  Mrs.  Fair- 
weather,  in  response  to  Eunice's  inquiring  glance.  "  He 
came  just  after  you  went  up-stairs.  They've  been  talking 
very  busily  about  something.  Perhaps  Mr.  Wilson  wants 
to  exchange." 

Just  at  that  moment,  the  study  door  opened  and  the  two 
men  came  out,  Eunice's  father,  tall  and  round-shouldered, 
with  grayish  sandy  hair  and  beard,  politely  allowing  his 
guest  to  precede  him.  There  was  a  little  resemblance  be 
tween  the  two,  though  there  was  no  relationship.  Mr.  Wil 
son  was  a  younger  man  by  ten  years ;  he  was  shorter  and 
slighter ;  but  he  had  similarly  sandy  hair  and  beard,  though 
they  were  not  quite  so  gray,  and  something  the  same  cast 
of  countenance.  He  was  settled  over  a  neighboring  par 
ish  ;  he  was  a  widower  with  four  young  children  ;  his  wife 
had  died  a  year  before. 

He  had  spoken  to  Mrs.  Fairweather  on  his  first  entrance, 
so  he  stepped  directly  towards  Eunice  with  extended  hand. 
His  ministerial  affability  was  slightly  clashed  with  embar 
rassment,  and  his  thin  cheeks  were  crimson  around  the 
roots  of  his  sandy  beard. 

Eunice  shook  the  proffered  hand  with  calm  courtesy, 
and  inquired  after  his  children.  She  had  not  a  thought 
that  his  embarrassment  betokened  anything,  if,  indeed,  she 
observed  it  at  all. 

Her  father  stood  by  with  an  air  of  awkward  readiness  to 
proceed  to  action,  waiting  until  the  two  should  cease  the 
interchanging  of  courtesies. 

WThen  the  expected  pause  came  he  himself  placed  a  chair 
for  Mr.  Wilson.  "  Sit  down,  Brother  Wilson,"  he  said,  ner- 


224  A  MORAL  EXIGENCY. 

vously,  "  and  I  will  consult  with  my  daughter  concerning 
the  matter  we  were  speaking  of.  Eunice,  I  would  like  to 
speak  with  you  a  moment  in  the  study." 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Eunice.  She  looked  surprised,  but 
she  followed  him  at  once  into  the  study.  "Tell  me  as 
quickly  as  you  can  what  it  is,  father,"  she  said,  "  for  it  is 
nearly  time  for  people  to  begin  coming,  and  I  shall  have  to 
attend  to  them." 

She  had  not  seated  herself,  but  stood  leaning  carelessly 
against  the  study  wall,  questioning  her  father  with  her  steady 
eyes. 

He  stood  in  his  awkward  height  before  her.  He  was 
plainly  trembling.  "  Eunice,"  he  said,  in  a  shaking  voice, 
"  Mr.  Wilson  came — to  say — he  would  like  to  marry  you, 
my  dear  daughter." 

He  cleared  his  throat  to  hide  his  embarrassment.  He 
felt  a  terrible  constraint  in  speaking  to  Eunice  of  such  mat 
ters  ;  he  looked  shamefaced  and  distressed. 

Eunice  eyed  him  steadily.  She  did  not  change  color  in 
the  least.  "  I  think  I  would  rather  remain  as  I  am,  father," 
she  said,  quietly. 

Her  father  roused  himself  then.  "  My  dear  daughter," 
he  said,  with  restrained  eagerness,  ''don't  decide  this  mat 
ter  too  hastily,  without  giving  it  all  the  consideration  it  de 
serves.  Mr.  Wilson  is  a  good  man  ;  he  would  make  you  a 
worthy  husband,  and  he  needs  a  wife  sadly.  Think  what  a 
wide  field  of  action  would  be  before  you  with  those  four  lit 
tle  motherless  children  to  love  and  care  for !  You  would 
have  a  wonderful  opportunity  to  do  good." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Eunice,* bluntly,  "that  I  should 
care  for  that  sort  of  an  opportunity." 

"Then,"  her  father  went  on,  "you  will  forgive  me  if  I 


A   MORAL  EXIGENCY.  225 

speak  plainly,  my  dear.  You — are  getting  older ;  you  have 
not  had  any  other  visitors.  You  would  be  well  provided 
for  in  this  way— 

"Exceedingly  well,"  replied  Eunice,  slowly.  "There 
would  be  six  hundred  a  year  and  a  leaky  parsonage  for  a 
man  and  woman  and  four  children,  and — nobody  knows 
how  many  more."  She  was  almost  coarse  in  her  slow  in> 
dignation,  and  did  not  blush  at  it. 

"  The  Lord  would  provide  for  his  servants." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he  would  or  not.  I  don't  think 
he  would  be  under  any  obligation  to  if  his  servant  deliber 
ately  encumbered  himself  with  more  of  a  family  than  he  had 
brains  to  support." 

Her  father  looked  so  distressed  that  Eunice's  heart  smote 
her  for  her  forcible  words.  "  You  don't  want  to  get  rid  of 
me,  surely,  father,"  she  said,  in  a  changed  tone. 

Mr.  Fairweather's  lips  moved  uncertainly  as  he  answered: 
"  No,  my  dear  daughter ;  don't  ever  let  such  a  thought  en 
ter  your  head.  I  only — Mr.  Wilson  is  a  good  man,  and  a 
woman  is  best  off  married,  and  your  mother  and  I  are  old. 
I  have  never  laid  up  anything.  Sometimes —  Maybe  I 
don't  trust  the  Lord  enough,  but  I  have  felt  anxious  about 
you,  if  anything  happened  to  me."  Tears  were  standing  in 
his  light-blue  eyes,  which  had  never  been  so  steady  and 
keen  as  his  daughter's. 

There  came  a  loud  peal  of  the  door -bell.  Eunice  start 
ed.  "There!  I  must  go,"  she  said.  "We'll  talk  about 
this  another  time.  Don't  worry  about  it,  father  dear." 

"But,  Eunice,  what  shall  I  say  to  him  ?" 

"  Must  something  be  said  to-night  ?" 

"  It  would  hardly  be  treating  him  fairly  otherwise." 

Eunice  looked  hesitatingly  at  her  father's  worn,  anxious 


226  A   MORAL   EXIGENCY. 

face.  "  Tell  him,"  she  said  at  length,  "  that  I  will  give  him 
his  answer  in  a  week." 

Her  father  looked  gratified.  "We  will  take  it  to  the 
Lord,  my  dear." 

Eunice's  lip  curled  curiously,  but  she  said, "  Yes,  sir,"  duti 
fully,  and  hastened  from  the  room  to  answer  the  door-bell. 

The  fresh  bevies  that  were  constantly  arriving  after  that 
engaged  her  whole  attention.  She  could  do  no  more  than 
give  a  hurried  "Good-evening"  to  Mr.  Wilson  when  he 
came  to  take  leave,  after  a  second  short  conference  with  her 
father  in  the  study.  He  looked  deprecatingly  hopeful. 

The  poor  man  was  really  in  a  sad  case.  Six  years  ago, 
when  he  married,  he  had  been  romantic.  He  would  never 
be  again.  He  was  not  thirsting  for  love  and  communion 
with  a  kindred  spirit  now,  but  for  a  good,  capable  woman 
who  would  take  care  of  his  four  clamorous  children  without 
a  salary. 

He  returned  to  his  shabby,  dirty  parsonage  that  night 
With,  it  seemed  to  him,  quite  a  reasonable  hope  that  his  af 
fairs  might  soon  be  changed  for  the  better.  Of  course  he 
would  have  preferred  that  the  lady  should  have  said  yes  di 
rectly  ;  it  would  both  have  assured  him  and  shortened  the 
time  until  his  burdens  should  be  lightened ;  but  he  could 
hardly  have  expected  that,  when  his  proposal  was  so  sud 
den,  and  there  had  been  no  preliminary  attention  on  his 
part.  The  week's  probation,  therefore,  did  not  daunt  him 
much.  He  did  not  really  see  why  Eunice  should  refuse 
him.  She  was  plain,  was  getting  older;  it  probably  was 
her  first,  and  very  likely  her  last,  chance  of  marriage.  He 
was  a  clergyman  in  good  standing,  and  she  would  not  lower 
her  social  position.  He  felt  sure  that  he  was  now  about  to 
be  relieved  from  the  unpleasant  predicament  in  which  he 


A   MORAL   EXIGENCY.  227 

had  been  ever  since  his  wife's  death,  and  from  which  he  had 
been  forced  to  make  no  effort  to  escape,  for  decency's  sake, 
for  a  full  year.  The  year,  in  fact,  had  been  up  five  days 
ago.  He  actually  took  credit  to  himself  for  remaining  qui 
escent  during  those  five  days.  It  was  rather  shocking,  but 
there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  him.  No  wife  and 
four  small  children,  six  hundred  dollars  a  year,  moderate 
brain,  and  an  active  conscience,  are  a  hard  combination  of 
circumstances  for  any  man. 

To-night,  however,  he  returned  thanks  to  the  Lord  for  his 
countless  blessings  with  pious  fervor,  which  would  have 
been  lessened  had  he  known  of  the  state  of  Eunice's  mind 
just  at  that  moment. 

•  The  merry  company  had  all  departed,  the  tree  stood  dis 
mantled  in  the  parlor,  and  she  was  preparing  for  bed,  with 
her  head  full,  not  of  him,  but  another  man. 

Standing  before  her  glass,  combing  out  her  rather  scanty, 
lustreless  hair,  her  fancy  pictured  to  her,  beside  her  own 
homely,  sober  face,  another,  a  man's,  blond  and  handsome, 
with  a  gentle,  almost  womanish  smile  on  the  full  red  lips, 
and  a  dangerous  softness  in  the  blue  eyes.  Could  a  third 
person  have  seen  the  double  picture  as  she  did,  he  would 
have  been  struck  with  a  sense  of  the  incongruity,  almost  ab 
surdity,  of  it.  Eunice  herself,  with  her  hard,  uncompromis 
ing  common-sense,  took  the  attitude  of  a  third  person  in 
regard  to  it,  and  at  length  blew  her  light  out  and  went  to 
bed,  with  a  bitter  amusement  in  her  heart  at  her  own  folly. 

There  had  been  present  that  evening  a  young  man  who 
was  a  comparatively  recent  acquisition  to  the  village  society. 
He  had  been  in  town  about  three  months.  His  father,  two 
years  before,  had  purchased  one  of  the  largest  farms  in  the 
vicinity,  moving  there  from  an  adjoining  state.  This  son 


228  A  MORAL  EXIOENGY. 

had  been  absent  at  the  time ;  he  was  reported  to  be  run 
ning  a  cattle  ranch  in  one  of  those  distant  territories  which 
seem  almost  fabulous  to  New-Englanders.  Since  he  had 
come  home  he  had  been  the  cynosure  of  the  village.  He 
was  thirty  and  a  little  over,  but  he  was  singularly  boyish  in 
his  ways,  and  took  part  in  all  the  town  frolics  with  gusto. 
He  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  engaged  to  Ada  Harris, 
Squire  Harris's  daughter,  as  she  was  often  called.  Her 
father  was  the  prominent  man  of  the  village,  lived  in  the 
best  house,  and  had  the  loudest  voice  in  public  matters. 
He  was  a  lawyer,  with  rather  more  pomposity  than  ability, 
perhaps,  but  there  had  always  been  money  and  influence  in 
the  Harris  family,  and  these  warded  off  all  criticism. 

The  daughter  was  a  pretty  blonde  of  average  attainments, 
but  with  keen  wits  and  strong  passions.  She  had  not  been 
present  at  the  Christmas  tree,  and  her  lover,  either  on  that 
account,  or  really  from  some  sudden  fancy  he  had  taken  to 
Eunice,  had  been  at  her  elbow  the  whole  evening.  He  had 
a  fashion  of  making  his  attentions  marked :  he  did  on  that 
occasion.  He  made  a  pretence  of  assisting  her,  but  it  was 
only  a  pretence,  and  she  knew  it,  though  she  thought  it  mar 
vellous.  She  had  met  him,  but  had  not  before  exchanged 
two  words  with  him.  She  had  seen  him  with  Ada  Harris, 
and  he  had  seemed  almost  as  much  out  of  her  life  as  a 
lover  in  a  book.  Young  men  of  his  kind  were  unknown 
quantities  heretofore  to  this  steady,  homely  young  woman. 
They  seemed  to  belong  to  other  girls. 

So  his  devotion  to  her  through  the  evening,  and  his  ask 
ing  permission  to  call  when  he  took  leave,  seemed  to  her 
well-nigh  incredible.  Her  head  was  not  turned,  in  the  usual 
acceptation  of  the  term — it  was  not  an  easy  head  to  turn — 
but  it  was  full  of  Burr  Mason,  and  every  thought,  no  matter 


A  MORAL  EXIGENCY.  229 

how  wide  a  starting-point  it  had,  lost  itself  at  last  in  the 
thought  of  him. 

Mr.  Wilson's  proposal  weighed  upon  her  terribly  through 
the  next  week.  Her  father  seemed  bent  upon  her  accept 
ing  it ;  so  did  her  mother,  who  sighed  in  secret  over  the 
prospect  of  her  daughter's  remaining  unmarried.  Either 
through  unworldliness,  or  their  conviction  of  the  desirability 
of  the  marriage  in  itself,  the  meagreness  of  the  financial 
outlook  did  not  seem  to  influence  them  in  the  least. 

Eunice  did  not  once  think  of  Burr  Mason  as  any  reason 
for  her  reluctance,  but  when  he  called  the  day  but  one  before 
her  week  of  probation  was  up,  and  when  he  took  her  to 
drive  the  next  day,  she  decided  on  a  refusal  of  the  minister's 
proposal  easily  enough.  She  had  wavered  a  little  before. 

So  Mr.  Wilson  was  left  to  decide  upon  some  other  worthy, 
reliable  woman  as  a  subject  for  his  addresses,  and  Eunice 
kept  on  with  her  new  lover. 

How  this  sober,  conscientious  girl  could  reconcile  to  her 
self  the  course  she  was  now  taking,  was  a  question.  It  was 
probable  she  did  not  make  the  effort ;  she  was  so  sensible 
that  she  would  have  known  its  futility  and  hypocrisy  before 
hand. 

She  knew  her  lover  had  been  engaged  to  Ada  Harris  ; 
that  she  was  encouraging  him  in  cruel  and  dishonorable 
treatment  of  another  woman ;  but  she  kept  steadily  on. 
People  even  came  to  her  and  told  her  that  the  jilted  girl 
was  breaking  her  heart.  She  listened,  her  homely  face  set 
in  an  immovable  calm.  She  listened  quietly  to  her  parents' 
remonstrance,  and  kept  on. 

There  was  an  odd  quality  in  Burr  Mason's  character.  He 
was  terribly  vacillating,  but  he  knew  it.  Once  he  said  to 
Eunice,  with  the  careless  freedom  that  would  have  been  al- 


230  A   MORAL  EXIGENCY. 

most  insolence  in  another  man  :  "  Don't  let  me  see  Ada 
Harris  much,  I  warn  you,  dear.  I  mean  to  be  true  to  you, 
but  she  has  such  a  pretty  face,  and  I  meant  to  be  true  to 
her,  but  you  have — I  don't  know  just  what,  but  something 
she  has  not." 

Eunice  knew  the  truth  of  what  he  said  perfectly.  The 
incomprehensibleness  of  it  all  to  her,  who  was  so  sensible 
of  her  own  disadvantages,  was  the  fascination  she  had  for 
such  a  man. 

A  few  days  after  Burr  Mason  had  made  that  remark,  Ada 
Harris  came  to  see  her.  When  Eunice  went  into  the  sit 
ting-room  to  greet  her,  she  kept  her  quiet,  unmoved  face, 
but  the  change  in  the  girl  before  her  was  terrible.  It  was 
not  wasting  of  flesh  or  pallor  that  it  consisted  in,  but  some 
thing  worse.  Her  red  lips  were  set  so  hard  that  the  soft 
curves  in  them  were  lost,  her  cheeks  burned  feverishly,  her 
blue  eyes  had  a  fierce  light  in  them,  and,  most  pitiful  thing 
of  all  for  another  woman  to  see,  she  had  not  crimped  her 
pretty  blond  hair,  but  wore  it  combed  straight  back  from 
her  throbbing  forehead. 

When  Eunice  entered,  she  waited  for  no  preliminary 
courtesies,  but  sprang  forward,  and  caught  hold  of  her  hand 
with  a  strong,  nervous  grasp,  and  stood  so,  her  pretty,  des 
perate  face  confronting  Eunice's  calm,  plain  one. 

"  Eunice !"  she  cried,  "  Eunice !  why  did  you  take  him 
away  from  me  ?  Eunice  !  Eunice  !"  Then  she  broke  into 
a  low  wail,  without  any  tears. 

Eunice  released  her  hand,  and  seated  herself.  "  You  had 
better  take  a  chair,  Ada,"  she  said,  in  her  slow,  even  tones. 
"  When  you  say  him,  you  mean  Burr  Mason,  I  suppose." 

"  You  know  I  do.  Oh,  Eunice,  how  could  you  ?  how 
could  you  ?  I  thought  you  were  so  good !" 


A   MORAL  EXIGENCY.  231 

"  You  ask  me  why  /  do  this  and  that,  but  don't  you  think 
he  had  anything  to  do  with  it  himself?" 

Ada  stood  before  her,  clinching  her  little  white  hands. 
"  Eunice  Fairweather,  you  know  Burr  Mason,  and  I  know 
Burr  Mason.  You  know  that  if  you  gave  him  up,  and 
refused  to  see  him,  he  would  come  back  to  me.  You 
know  it." 

"Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it ;  you  sit  there  and  say  you  know  it,  and 
yet  you  do  this  cruel  thing  —  you,  a  minister's  daughter. 
You  understood  from  the  first  how  it  was.  You  knew  he 
was  mine,  that  you  had  no  right  to  him.  You  knew  if  you 
shunned  him  ever  so  little,  that  he  would  come  back  to  me. 
And  yet  you  let  him  come  and  make  love  to  you.  You 
knew  it.  There  is  no  excuse  for  you :  you  knew  it.  It  is 
no  better  for  him.  You  have  encouraged  him  in  being 
false.  You  have  dragged  him  down.  You  are  a  plainer 
girl  than  I,  and  a  soberer  one,  but  you  are  no  better.  You 
will  not  make  him  a  better  wife.  You  cannot  make  him  a 
good  wife  after  this.  It  is  all  for  yourself—  yourself !" 

Eunice  sat  still. 

Then  Ada  flung  herself  on  her  knees  at  her  side,  and 
pleaded,  as  for  her  life.  "  Eunice,  O  Eunice,  give  him  up 
to  me  !  It  is  killing  me  !  Eunice,  dear  Eunice,  say  you 
will !" 

As  Eunice  sat  looking  at  the  poor,  dishevelled  golden 
head  bowed  over  her  lap,  a  recollection  flashed  across  her 
mind,  oddly  enough,  of  a  certain  recess  at  the  village  school 
they  two  had  attended  years  ago,  when  she  was  among  the 
older  girls,  and  Ada  a  child  to  her :  how  she  had  played 
she  was  her  little  girl,  and  held  her  in  her  lap,  and  that 
golden  head  had  nestled  on  her  bosom. 


232  A   MORAL  EXIGENCY. 

"  Eunice,  O  Eunice,  he  loved  me  first.  You  had  better 
have  stolen  away  my  own  heart.  It  would  not  have  been 
so  wicked  or  so  cruel.  How  could  you?  O  Eunice,  give 
him  back  to  me,  Eunice,  won't  you  ?" 

"  No." 

Ada  rose,  staggering,  without  another  word.  She  moaned 
a  little  to  herself  as  she  crossed  the  room  to  the  door.  Eu 
nice  accompanied  her  to  the  outer  door,  and  said  good-bye. 
Ada  did  not  return  it.  Eunice  saw  her  steady  herself  by 
catching  hold  of  the  gate  as  she  passed  through. 

Then  she  went  slowly  up-stairs  to  her  own  room,  wrapped 
herself  in  a  shawl,  and  lay  down  on  her  bed,  as  she  had 
that  Christmas  Eve.  She  was  very  pale,  and  there  was  a 
strange  look,  almost  of  horror,  on  her  face.  She  stared,  as 
she  lay  there,  at  all  the  familiar  objects  in  the  room,  but 
the  most  common  and  insignificant  of  them  had  a  strange 
and  awful  look  to  her.  Yet  the  change  was  in  herself,  not 
in  them.  The  shadow  that  was  over  her  own  soul  over 
shadowed  them  and  perverted  her  vision.  But  she  felt  also 
almost  a  fear  of  all  those  inanimate  objects  she  was  gazing 
at.  They  were  so  many  reminders  of  a  better  state  with 
her,  for  she  had  gazed  at  them  all  in  her  unconscious  child 
hood.  She  was  sickened  with  horror  at  their  dumb  accu 
sations.  There  was  the  little  glass  she  had  looked  in  before 
she  had  stolen  another  woman's  dearest  wealth  away  from 
her,  the  chair  she  had  sat  in,  the  bed  she  had  lain  in. 

At  last  Eunice  Fairweather's  strong  will  broke  down  be 
fore  the  accusations  of  her  own  conscience,  which  were  so 
potent  as  to  take  upon  themselves  material  shapes. 

• 
Ada  Harris,  in  her  pretty  chamber,  lying  worn  out  on 

her  bed,  her  face  buried  in  the  pillow,  started  at  a  touch 


A   MORAL   EXIGENCY.  233 

on  her  shoulder.  Some  one  had  stolen  into  the  room 
unannounced — not  her  mother,  for  she  was  waiting  outside. 
Ada  turned  her  head,  and  saw  Eunice.  She  struck  at  her 
wildly  with  her  slender  hands.  "  Go  away !"  she  screamed. 

"Ada!" 

"  Go  away !" 

"Burr  Mason  is  down-stairs.  I  came  with  him  to  call 
on  you." 

Ada  sat  upright,  staring  at  her,  her  hand  still  uplifted. 

"  I  am  going  to  break  my  engagement  with  him." 

"Oh,  Eunice!  Eunice!  you  blessed — " 

Eunice  drew  the  golden  head  down  on  her  bosom,  just 
as  she  had  on  that  old  school-day. 

"  Love  me  all  you  can,  Ada,"  she  said.  "  I  want — some 
thing." 


A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

THERE  were  in  a  green  field  a  little,  low,  weather-stained 
cottage,  with  a  foot-path  leading  to  it  from  the  highway 
several  rods  distant,  and  two  old  women — one  with  a  tin 
pan  and  old  knife  searching  for  dandelion  greens  among 
the  short  young  grass,  and  the  other  sitting  on  the  door-step 
watching  her,  or,  rather,  having  the  appearance  of  watch 
ing  her. 

"Air  there  enough  for  a  mess,  Harrie't?"  asked  the  old 
woman  on  the  door-step.  She  accented  oddly  the  last  syl 
lable  of  the  Harriet,  and  there  was  a  curious  quality  in  her 
feeble,  cracked  old  voice.  Besides  the  question  denoted 
by  the  arrangement  of  her  words  and  the  rising  inflection, 
there  was  another,  broader  and  subtler,  the  very  essence  of 
all  questioning,  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  itself;  the  cracked, 
quavering  notes  that  she  used  reached  out  of  themselves, 
and  asked,  and  groped  like  fingers  in  the  dark.  One  would 
have  known  by  the  voice  that  the  old  woman  was  blind. 

The  old  woman  on  her  knees  in  the  grass  searching  for 
dandelions  did  not  reply ;  she  evidently  had  not  heard  the 
question.  So  the  old  woman  on  the  door-step,  after  wait-' 
ing  a  few  minutes  with  her  head  turned  expectantly,  asked 
again,  varying  her  question  slightly,  and  speaking  louder : 

"Air  there  enough  for  a  mess,  do  ye  s'pose,  Harriet?" 


A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY.  235 

The  old  woman  in  the  grass  heard  this  time.  She  rose 
slowly  and  laboriously ;  the  effort  of  straightening  out  the 
rheumatic  old  muscles  was  evidently  a  painful  one ;  then 
she  eyed  the  greens  heaped  up  in  the  tin  pan,  and  pressed 
them  down  with  her  hand. 

"  Wa'al,  I  don't  know,  Charlotte,"  she  replied,  hoarsely. 
"  There's  plenty  on  'em  here,  but  I  'ain't  got  near  enough 
for  a  mess ;  they  do  bile  down  so  when  you  get  'em  in  the 
pot  j  an'  it's  all  I  can  do  to  bend  my  j'ints  enough  to  dig 
'em." 

"  I'd  give  consider'ble  to  help  ye,  Harriet,"  said  the  old 
woman  on  the  door-step. 

But  the  other  did  not  hear  her ;  she  was  down  on  her 
knees  in  the  grass  again,  anxiously  spying  out  the  dande 
lions. 

So  the  old  woman  on  the  door-step  crossed  her  little 
shrivelled  hands  over  her  calico  knees,  and  sat  quite  still, 
with  the  soft  spring  wind  blowing  over  her. 

The  old  wooden  door-step  was  sunk  low  down  among 
the  grasses,  and  the  whole  house  to  which  it  belonged  had 
an  air  of  settling  down  and  mouldering  into  the  grass  as 
into  its  own  grave. 

When  Harriet  Shattuck  grew  deaf  and  rheumatic,  and 
had  to  give  up  her  work  as  tailoress,  and  Charlotte  Shat 
tuck  lost  her  eyesight,  and  was  unable  to  do  any  more  sew 
ing  for  her  livelihood,  it  was  a  small  and  trifling  charity  for 
the  rich  man  who  held  a  mortgage  on  the  little  house  in 
which  they  had  been  born  and  lived  all  their  lives  to  give 
them  the  use  of  it,  rent  and  interest  free.  He  might  as  well 
have  taken  credit  to  himself  for  not  charging  a  squirrel  for 
his  tenement  in  some  old  decaying  tree  in  his  woods. 

So  ancient  was  the  little  habitation,  so  wavering  and 


236  A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

mouldering,  the  hands  that  had  fashioned  it  had  lain  still 
so  long  in  their  graves,  that  it  almost  seemed  to  have  fallen 
below  its  distinctive  rank  as  a  house.  Rain  and  snow  had 
filtered  through  its  roof,  mosses  had  grown  over  it,  worms 
had  eaten  it,  and  birds  built  their  nests  under  its  eaves; 
nature  had  almost  completely  overrun  and  obliterated  the 
work  of  man,  and  taken  her  own  to  herself  again,  till  the 
house  seemed  as  much  a  natural  ruin  as  an  old  tree- 
stump. 

The  Shattucks  had  always  been  poor  people  and  common 
people ;  no  especial  grace  and  refinement  or  fine  ambition 
had  ever  characterized  any  of  them  \  they  had  always  been 
poor  and  coarse  and  common.  The  father  and  his  fa 
ther  before  him  had  simply  lived  in  the  poor  little  house, 
grubbed  for  their  living,  and  then  unquestioningly  died. 
The  mother  had  been  of  no  rarer  stamp,  and  the  two  daugh 
ters  were  cast  in  the  same  mould. 

After  their  parents'  death  Harriet  and  Charlotte  had  lived 
along  in  the  old  place  from  youth  to  old  age,  with  the  one 
hope  of  ability  to  keep  a  roof  over  their  heads,  covering  on 
their  backs,  and  victuals  in  their  mouths — an  all-sufficient 
one  with  them. 

Neither  of  them  had  ever  had  a  lover ;  they  had  always 
seemed  to  repel  rather  than  attract  the  opposite  sex.  It 
was  not  merely  because  they  were  poor,  ordinary,  and  home 
ly  ;  there  were  plenty  of  men  in  the  place  who  would  have 
matched  them  well  in  that  respect ;  the  fault  lay  deeper — 
in  their  characters.  Harriet,  even  in  her  girlhood,  had  a 
blunt,  defiant  manner  that  almost  amounted  to  surliness, 
and  was  well  calculated  to  alarm  timid  adorers,  and  Char 
lotte  had  always  had  the  reputation  of  not  being  any  too 
strong  in  her  mind. 


A  MISTAKEN  CHARITY.  237 

Harriet  had  gone  about  from  house  to  house  doing  tailor- 
work  after  the  primitive  country  fashion,  and  Charlotte  had 
done  plain  sewing  and  mending  for  the  neighbors.  They 
had  been,  in  the  main,  except  when  pressed  by  some  tempo 
rary  anxiety  about  their  work  or  the  payment  thereof,  happy 
and  contented,  with  that  negative  kind  of  happiness  and 
contentment  which  com-es  not  from  gratified  ambition,  but 
a  lack  of  ambition  itself.  All  that  they  cared  for  they  had 
had  in  tolerable  abundance,  for  Harriet  at  least  had  been 
swift  and  capable  about  her  work.  The  patched,  mossy 
old  roof  had  been  kept  over  their  heads,  the  coarse,  hearty 
food  that  they  loved  had  been  set  on  their  table,  and  their 
cheap  clothes  had  been  warm  and  strong. 

After  Charlotte's  eyes  failed  her,  and  Harriet  had  the 
rheumatic  fever,  and  the  little  hoard  of  earnings  went  to 
the  doctors,  times  were  harder  with  them,  though  still  it 
could  not  be  said  that  they  actually  suffered. 

When  they  could  not  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgage 
they  were  allowed  to  keep  the  place  interest  free ;  there 
was  as  much  fitness  in  a  mortgage  on  the  little  house,  any 
way,  as  there  would  have  been  on  a  rotten  old  apple-tree  ; 
and  the  people  about,  who  were  mostly  farmers,  and  good 
friendly  folk,  helped  them  out  with  their  living.  One  would 
donate  a  barrel  of  apples  from  his  abundant  harvest  to  the 
two  poor  old  women,  one  a  barrel  of  potatoes,  another  a 
load  of  wood  for  the  winter  fuel,  and  many  a  farmer's  wife 
had  bustled  up  the  narrow  foot-path  with  a  pound  of  butter, 
or  a  dozen  fresh  eggs,  or  a  nice  bit  of  pork.  Besides  all 
this,  there  was  a  tiny  garden  patch  behind  the  house,  with 
a  straggling  row  of  currant  bushes  in  it,  and  one  of  goose 
berries,  where  Harriet  contrived  every  year  to  raise  a  few 
pumpkins,  which  were  the  pride  of  her  life.  On  the  right 
16 


238  A  MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

of  the  garden  were  two  old  apple-trees,  a  Baldwin  and  a 
Porter,  both  yet  in  a  tolerably  good  fruit-bearing  state. 

The  delight  which  the  two  poor  old  souls  took  in  their 
own  pumpkins,  their  apples  and  currants,  was  indescrib 
able.  It  was  not  merely  that  they  contributed  largely  tow 
ards  their  living ;  they  were  their  own,  their  private  share 
of  the  great  wealth  of  nature,  the  little  taste  set  apart  for 
them  alone  out  of  her  bounty,  and  worth  more  to  them  on 
that  account,  though  they  were  not  conscious  of  it,  than 
all  the  richer  fruits  which  they  received  from  their  neighr 
bors'  gardens. 

This  morning  the  two  apple-trees  were  brave  with  flowers, 
the  currant  bushes  looked  alive,  and  the  pumpkin  seeds 
were  in  the  ground.  Harriet  cast  complacent  glances  in 
their  direction  from  time  to  time,  as  she  painfully  dug  her 
dandelion  greens.  She  was  a  short,  stoutly  built  old  wom 
an,  with  a  large  face  coarsely  wrinkled,  with  a  suspicion  of 
a  stubble  of  beard  on  the  square  chin. 

When  her  tin  pan  was  filled  to  her  satisfaction  with  the 
sprawling,  spidery  greens,  and  she  was  hobbling  stiffly  tow 
ards  her  sister  on  the  door-step,  she  saw  another  woman 
standing  before  her  with  a  basket  in  her  hand. 

"Good-morning,  Harriet,"  she  said,  in  a  loud,  strident 
voice,  as  she  drew  near.  "  I've  been  frying  some  dough- 
nuts,  and  I  brought  you  over  some  warm." 

"I've  been  tellin'  her  it  was  real  good  in  her,"  piped 
Charlotte  from  the  door-step,  with  an  anxious  turn  of  her 
sightless  face  towards  the  sound  of  her  sister's  footstep. 

Harriet  said  nothing  but  a  hoarse  "  Good-mornin',.  Mis' 
Simonds."  Then  she  took  the  basket  in  her  hand,  lifted 
the  towel  off  the  top,  selected  a -doughnut,  and  deliberately 
tasted  it. 


A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY.  239 

"'  Tough,"  said  she.  "Is'posedso.  If  there  is  anything 
I  'spise  on  this  airth  it's  a  tough  doughnut." 

"  Oh,  Harriet  !"  said  Charlotte,  with  a  frightened  look. 

"They  air  tough,"  said  Harriet,  with  hoarse  defiance, 
"  and  if  there  is  anything  I  'spise  on  this  airth  it's  a  tough 
doughnut." 

The  woman  whose  benevolence  and  cookery  were  being 
thus  ungratefully  received  only  laughed.  She  was  quite 
fleshy,  and  had  a  round,  rosy,  determined  face. 

"  Well,  Harriet,"  said  she,  "  I  am  sorry  they  are  tough, 
but  perhaps  you  had  better  take  them  out  on  a  plate,  and 
give  me  my  basket.  You  may  be  able  to  eat  two  or  three 
of  them  if  they  are  tough." 

"They  air  tough — tumble  tough,"  said  Harriet,  stubborn 
ly  ;  but  she  took  the  basket  into  the  house  and  emptied  it 
of  its  contents  nevertheless. 

"  I  suppose  your  roof  leaked  as  bad  as  ever  in  that  heavy 
rain  day  before  yesterday  ?"  said  the  visitor  to  Harriet,  with 
an  inquiring  squint  towards  the  mossy  shingles,  as  she  was 
about  to  leave  with  her  empty  basket. 

"  It  was  tumble,"  replied  Harriet,  with  crusty  acquies 
cence — "tumble.  We  had  to  set  pails  an'  pans  every- 
wheres,  an'  move  the  bed  out." 

"  Mr.  Upton  ought  to  fix  it." 

"There  ain't  any  fix  to  it;  the  old  ruff  ain't  fit  to  nail 
new  shingles  on  to ;  the  hammerin'  would  bring  the  whole 
thing  down  on  our  heads,"  said  Harriet,  grimly. 

"'Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  can  be  fixed,  it's  so  old.  I 
suppose  the  wind  comes  in  bad  around  the  windows  and 
cloors  too?" 

"  It's  like  livin'  with  a  piece  of  paper,  or  mebbe  a  sieve, 
'twixt  you  an'  the  wind  an'  the  rain,"  quoth  Harriet,  with  a 
ierk  of  her  head. 


240  A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

"You  ought  to  have  a  more  comfortable  home  in  your 
old  age,"  said  the  visitor,  thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  it's  well  enough,"  cried  Harriet,  in  quick  alarm, 
and  with  a  complete  change  of  tone  ;  the  woman's  remark 
had  brought  an  old  dread  over  her.  "  The  old  house  '11  last 
as  long  as  Charlotte  an'  me  do.  The  rain  ain't  so  bad, 
nuther  is  the  wind ;  there's  room  enough  for  us  in  the  dry 
places,  an'  out  of  the  way  of  the  doors  an'  windows.  It's 
enough  sight  better  than  goin'  on  the  town."  Her  square, 
defiant  old  face  actually  looked  pale  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words  and  stared  apprehensively  at  the  woman. 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  think  of  your  doing  that,"  she  said,  hasti 
ly  and  kindly.  <l  We  all  know  how  you  feel  about  that, 
Harriet,  and  not  one  of  us  neighbors  will  see  you  and  Char 
lotte  go  to  the  poorhouse  while  we've  got  a  crust  of  bread 
to  share  with  you." 

Harriet's  face  brightened.  "Thank  ye,  Mis'  Simonds," 
she  said,  with  reluctant  courtesy.  "  I'm  much  obleeged  to 
you  an'  the  neighbors.  I  think  mebbe  we'll  be  able  to  eat 
some  of  them  doughnuts  if  they  air  tough,"  she  added,  mol- 
lifyingly,  as  her  caller  turned  down  the  foot-path. 

"  My,  Harriet,"  said  Charlotte,  lifting  up  a  weakly,  won 
dering,  peaked  old  face,  "  what  did  you  tell  her  them  dough 
nuts  was  tough  fur?" 

"  Charlotte,  do  you  want  everybody  to  look  down  on  us, 
an'  think  \ve  ain't  no  account  at  all,  just  like  any  beggars, 
'cause  they  bring  us  in  vittles  ?"  said  Harriet,  with  a  grim 
glance  at  her  sister's  meek,  unconscious  face. 

"  No,  Harriet,"  she  whispered. 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  the  poor-house  ?" 

"  No,  Harriet."  The  poor  little  old  woman  on  the  door 
step  fairly  cowered  before  her  aggressive  old  sister. 


A  MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 


241 


"Then  don't  bender  me  agin  when  I  tell  folks  their 
doughnuts  is  tough  an'  their  pertaters  is  poor.  If  I  don't 
kinder  keep  up  an'  show  some  sperrit,  I  sha'n't  think  noth 
ing  of  myself,  an'  other  folks  won't  nuther,  and  fust  thing 
we  know  they'll  kerry  us  to  the  poorhouse.  You'd  'a  been 
there  .before  now  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  Charlotte." 

Charlotte  looked  meekly  convinced,  and  her  sister  sat 
down  on  a  chair  in  the  doorway  to  scrape  her  dande 
lions. 

"  Did  you  git  a  good  mess,  Harriet  ?"  asked  Charlotte,  in 
a  humble  tone. 

"Toler'ble." 

"  They'll  be  proper  relishin'  with  that  piece  of  pork 
Mis'  Mann  brought  in  yesterday.  O  Lord,  Harriet,  it's  a 
chink !" 

Harriet  sniffed. 

Her  sister  caught  with  her  sensitive  ear  the  little  con 
temptuous  sound.  "  I  guess,"  she  said,  querulously,  and 
with  more  pertinacity  than  she  had  shown  in  the  matter  of 
the  doughnuts,  "  that  if  you  was  in  the  dark,  as  I  am,  Har 
riet,  you  wouldn't  make  fun  an'  turn  up  your  nose  at  chinks. 
If  you  had  seen  the  light  streamin'  in  all  of  a  sudden 
through  some  little  hole  that  you  hadn't  known  of  before 
when  you  set  down  on  the  door-step  this  mornin',  and  the 
wind  with  the  smell  of  the  apple  blows  in  it  came  in  your 
face,  an'  when  Mis'  Simonds  brought  them  hot  doughnuts, 
an'  when  I  thought  of  the  pork  an'  greens  jest  now —  O 
Lord,  how  it  did  shine  in  !  An'  it  does  now.  If  you  was 
me,  Harriet,  you  would  know  there  was  chinks." 

Tears  began  starting  from  the  sightless  eyes,  and  stream 
ing  pitifully  down  the  pale  old  cheeks. 

Harriet  looked  at  her  sister,  and  her  grim  face  softened. 


242  A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

"Why,  Charlotte,  hev  it  that  thar  is  chinks  if  you  want  to. 
Who  cares  ?" 

"Thar  is  chinks,  Harriet." 

"  Wa'al,  thar  is  chinks,  then.  If  I  don't  hurry,  I  sha'n't 
get  these  greens  in  in  time  for  dinner." 

When  the  two  old  women  sat  down  complacently  to  their 
meal  of  pork  and  dandelion  greens  in  their  little  kitchen 
they  did  not  dream  how  destiny  slowly  and  surely  was  in 
troducing  some  new  colors  into  their  web  of  life,  even  when 
it  was  almost  completed,  and  that  this  was  one  of  the  last 
meals  they  would  eat  in  their  old  home  for  many  a  day.  In 
about  a  week  from  that  day  they  were  established  in  the 
"  Old  Ladies'  Home  "  in  a  neighboring  city.  It  came  about 
in  this  wise:  Mrs.  Simonds,  the  woman  who  had  brought 
the  gift  of  hot  doughnuts,  was  a  smart,  energetic  person, 
bent  on  doing  good,  and  she  did  a  great  deal.  To  be  sure, 
she  always  did  it  in  her  own  way.  If  she  chose  to  give  hot 
doughnuts,  she  gave  hot  doughnuts ;  it  made  not  the  slight 
est  difference  to  her  if  the  recipients  of  her  charity  would 
infinitely  have  preferred  ginger  cookies.  Still,  a  great  many 
would  like  hot  doughnuts,  and  she  did  unquestionably  a 
great  deal  of  good. 

She  had  a  worthy  coadjutor  in  the  person  of  a  rich  and 
childless  elderly  widow  in  the  place.  They  had  fairly  en 
tered  into  a  partnership  in  good  works,  with  about  an  equal 
capital  on  both  sides,  the  widow  furnishing  the  money,  and 
Mrs.  Simonds,  who  had  much  the  better  head  of  the  two, 
furnishing  the  active  schemes  of  benevolence. 

The  afternoon  after  the  doughnut  episode  she  had  gone 
to  the  widow  with  a  new  project,  and  the  result  was  that 
entrance  fees  had  been  paid,  and  old  Harriet  and  Charlotte 
made  sure  of  a  comfortable  home  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 


A   MISTAKEN  CHAXITY.  243 

The  widow  was  hand  in  glove  with  officers  of  mission 
ary  boards  and  trustees  of  charitable  institutions.  There 
had  been  an  unusual  mortality  among  the  inmates  of  the 
"  Home  "  this  spring,  there  were  several  vacancies,  and  the 
matter  of  the  admission  of  Harriet  ancl  Charlotte  was  very 
quickly  and  easily  arranged.  But  the  matter  which  would 
have  seemed  the  least  difficult — inducing  the  two  old  women 
to  accept  the  bounty  which  Providence,  the  widow,  and  Mrs. 
Simoncls  were  ready  to  bestow  on  them — proved  the  most 
so.  The  struggle  to  persuade  them  to  abandon  their  tot 
tering  old  home  for  a  better  was  a  terrible  one.  The  widow 
had  pleaded  with  mild  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Simonds  with 
benevolent  determination  ;  the  counsel  and  reverend  elo 
quence  of  the  minister  had  been  called  in  ;  and  when  they 
yielded  at  last  it  was  with  a  sad  grace  for  the  recipients  of 
a  worthy  charity. 

It  had  been  hard  to  convince  them  that  the  "  Home  " 
was  not  an  almshouse  under  another  name,  and  their  yield 
ing  at  length  to  anything  short  of  actual  force  was  only  due 
probably  to  the  plea,  which  was  advanced  most  eloquently  to 
Harriet,  that  Charlotte  would  be  so  much  more  comfortable. 

The  morning  they  came  away,  Charlotte  cried  pitifully, 
and  trembled  all  over  her  little  shrivelled  body.  Harriet 
did  not  cry.  But  when  her  sister  had  passed  out  the  low, 
sagging  door  she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  then  took  it 
out  and  thrust  it  slyly  into  her  pocket,  shaking  her  head  to 
herself  with  an  air  of  fierce  determination. 

Mrs.  Simonds's  husband,  who  was  to  take  them  to  the 
depot,  said  to  himself,  with  disloyal  defiance  of  his  wife's 
active  charity,  that  it  was  a  shame,  as  he  helped  the  two 
distressed  old  souls  into  his  light  wagon,  and  put  the  poor 
little  box,  with  their  homely  clothes  in  it,  in  behind. 


244  A  MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

Mrs.  Simonds,  the  widow,  the  minister,  and  the  gentle 
man  from  the  "  Home  "  who  was  to  take  charge  of  them, 
were  all  at  the  depot,  their  faces  beaming  with  the  delight 
of  successful  benevolence.  But  the  two  poor  old  women 
looked  like  two  forlorn  prisoners  in  their  midst.  It  was  an 
impressive  illustration  of  the  truth  of  the  saying  "that  it  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

Well,  Harriet  and  Charlotte  Shattuck  went  to  the  "Old 
Ladies'  Home  "  with  reluctance  and  distress.  They  stayed 
two  months,  and  then — they  ran  away. 

The  "  Home  "  was  comfortable,  and  in  some  respects  even 
luxurious  ;  but  nothing  suited  those  two  unhappy,  unreason 
able  old  women. 

The  fare  was  of  a  finer,  more  delicately  served  variety 
than  they  had  been  accustomed  to ;  those  finely  flavored 
nourishing  soups  for  which  the  "  Home  "  took  great  credit 
to  itself  failed  to  please  palates  used  to  common,  coarser 
food. 

"  O  Lord,  Harriet,  when  I  set  down  to  the  table  here 
there  ain't  no  chinks,"  Charlotte  used  to  say.  "  If  we  could 
hev  some  cabbage,  or  some  pork  an'  greens,  how  the  light 
would  stream  in  1" 

Then  they  had  to  be  more  particular  about  their  dress. 
They  had  always  been  tidy  enough,  but  now  it  had  to  be 
something  more  j  the  widow,  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart, 
had  made  it  possible,  and  the  good  folks  in  charge  of  the 
"  Home,"  in  the  kindness  of  their  hearts,  tried  to  carry  out 
the  widow's  designs. 

But  nothing  could  transform  these  two  unpolished  old 
women  into  two  nice  old  ladies.  They  did  not  take  kindly 
to  white  lace  caps  and  delicate  neckerchiefs.  They  liked 
their  new  black  cashmere  dresses  well  enough,  but  they  felt 


A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY.  245 

as  if  they  broke  a  commandment  when  they  put  them  on 
every  afternoon.  They  had  always  worn  calico  with  long 
aprons  at  home,  and  they  wanted  to  now ;  and  they  wanted 
to  twist  up  their  scanty  gray  locks  into  little  knots  at  the 
back  of  their  heads,  and  go  without  caps,  just  as  they  al 
ways  had  done. 

Charlotte  in  a  dainty  white  cap  was  pitiful,  but  Harriet 
was  both  pitiful  and  comical.  They  were  totally  at  vari 
ance  with  their  surroundings,  and  they  felt  it  keenly,  as 
people  of  their  stamp  always  do.  No  amount  of  kindness 
and  attention — and  they  had  enough  of  both — sufficed  to 
reconcile  them  to  their  new  abode.  Charlotte  pleaded  con 
tinually  with  her  sister  to  go  back  to  their  old  home. 

"  O  Lord,  Harriet,  she  would  exclaim  (by  the  way,  Char 
lotte's  "  O  Lord,"  which,  as  she  used  it,  was  innocent 
enough,  had  been  heard  with  much  disfavor  in  the  "  Home," 
and  she,  not  knowing  at  all  why,  had  been  remonstrated 
with  concerning  it),  "  let  us  go  home.  I  can't  stay  here  no 
ways  in  this  world.  I  don't  like  their  vittles,  an'  I  don't 
like  to  wear  a  cap ;  I  want  to  go  home  and  do  different. 
The  cyrrants  will  be  ripe,  Harriet.  O  Lord,  thar  was  al 
most  a  chink,  thinking  about  'em.  I  want  some  of  'em  ; 
an'  the  Porter  apples  will  be  gittin'  ripe,  an'  we  could  have 
some  apple-pie.  This  here  ain't  good ;  I  want  merlasses 
fur  sweeting.  Can't  we  get  back  no  ways,  Harriet?  It  ain't 
far,  an'  we  could  walk,  an'  they  don't  lock  us  in,  nor  noth- 
in'.  I  don't  want  to  die  here;  it  ain't  so  straight  up  to 
heaven  from  here.  O  Lord,  I've  felt  as  if  I  was  slanten- 
dicular  from  heaven  ever  since  I've  been  here,  an'  it's  been 
so  awful  dark.  I  ain't  had  any  chinks.  I  want  to  go  home, 
Harriet." 

"We'll  go  to-morrow   mornin',"   said    Harriet,  finally j 


246  A   MISTAKEN   CHARITY. 

"  we'll  pack  up  our  things  an'  go ;  we'll  put  on  our  old 
dresses,  an'  we'll  do  up  the  new  ones  in  bundles,  an'  we'll 
jest  shy  out  the  back  way  to-morrow  mornin' ;  an'  we'll  go. 
I  kin  find  the  way,  an'  I  reckon  we  kin  git  thar,  if  it  is  four 
teen  mile.  Mebbe  somebody  will  give  us  a  lift." 

And  they  went.  With  a  grim  humor  Harriet  hung  the 
new  white  lace  -caps  with  which  she  and  Charlotte  had  been 
so  pestered,  one  on  each  post  at  the  head  of  the  bedstead, 
so  they  would  meet  the  eyes  of  the  first  person  who  opened 
the  door.  Then  they  took  their  bundles,  stole  slyly  out, 
and  were  soon  on  the  high-road,  hobbling  along,  holding 
each  other's  hands,  as  jubilant  as  two  children,  and  chuck 
ling  to  themselves  over  their  escape,  and  the  probable  as 
tonishment  there  would  be  in  the  "  Home  "  over  it.' 

"  O  Lord,  Harriet,  what  do  you  s'pose  they  will  say  to 
them  caps  ?"  cried  Charlotte,  with  a  gleeful  cackle. 

"  I  guess  they'll  see  as  folks  ain't  goin'  to  be  made  to 
wear  caps  agin  their  will  in  a  free  kentry,"  returned  Har 
riet,  with  an  echoing  cackle,  as  they  sped  feebly  and  brave 
ly  along. 

The  "  Home  "  stood  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  city, 
luckily  for  them.  They  would  have  found  it  a  difficult  un 
dertaking  to  traverse  the  crowded  streets.  As  it  was,  a 
short  walk  brought  them  into  the  free  country  road — free 
comparatively,  for  even  here  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
there  was  considerable  travelling  to  and  from  the  city  on 
business  or  pleasure. 

People  whom  they  met  on  the  road  did  not  stare  at 
them  as  curiously  as  might  have  been  expected.  Har 
riet  held  her  bristling  chin  high  in  air,  and  hobbled 
along  with  an  appearance  of  being  well  aware  of  what 
she  was  about,  that  led  folks  to  doubt  their  own  first 


A   AIIS TAKEN  CHARITY.  247 

opinion  that  there  was  something  unusual  about  the  two 
old  women. 

Still  their  evident  feebleness  now  and  then  occasioned 
from  one  and  another  more  particular  scrutiny.  When  they 
had  been  on  the  road  a  half-hour  or  so,  a  man  in  a  covered 
wagon  drove  up  behind  them.  After  he  had  passed  them, 
he  poked  his  head  around  the  front  of  the  vehicle  and 
looked  back.  Finally  he  stopped,  and  waited  for  them  to 
come  up  to  him. 

"  Like  a  ride,  ma'am  ?"  said  he,  looking  at  once  bewil 
dered  and  compassionate. 

"Thankee,"  said  Harriet,  "we'd  be  much  obleeged." 

After  the  man  had  lifted  the  old  women  into  the  wagon, 
and  established  them  on  the  back  seat,  he  turned  around, 
as  he  drove  slowly  along,  and  gazed  at  them  curiously. 

"  Seems  to  me  you  look  pretty  feeble  to  be  walking  far," 
said  he.  "Where  were  you  going?" 

Harriet  told  him  with  an  air  of  defiance. 

"  Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "  it  is  fourteen  miles  -out.  You 
could  never  walk  it  in  the  world.  Well,  I  am  going  within 
three  miles  of  there,  and  I  can  go  on  a  little  farther  as  well 
as  not.  But  I  don't  see —  Have  you  been  in  the  city?'7 

"  I  have  been  visitin'  my  married  darter  in  the  city,"  said 
Harriet,  calmly. 

Charlotte  started,  and  swallowed  convulsively. 

Harriet  had  never  told  a  deliberate  falsehood  before  in 
her  life,  but  this  seemed  to  her  one  of  the  tremendous  exi 
gencies  of  life  which  justify  a  lie.  She  felt  desperate.  If 
she  could  not  contrive  to  deceive  him  in  some  way,  the  man 
might  turn  directly  around  and  carry  Charlotte  and  her 
back  to  the  "Home  "  and  the  white  caps. 

*'I  should  not  have  thought  your  daughter  would  have 


248  A   MISTAKEN  CHARITY. 

let  you  start  for  such  a  walk  as  that,"  said  the  man.  "Is 
this  lady  your  sister  ?  She  is  blind,  isn't  she  ?  She  does 
not  look  fit  to  walk  a  mile." 

"  Yes,  she's  my  sister,"  replied  Harriet,  stubbornly  :  "  an' 
she's  blind ;  an'  my  darter  didn't  want  us  to  walk.  She 
felt  reel  bad  about  it.  But  she  couldn't  help  it.  She's  poor, 
and  her  husband's  dead,  an'  she's  got  four  leetle  children." 

Harriet  recounted  the  hardships  of  her  imaginary  daugh 
ter  with  a  glibness  that  was  astonishing.  Charlotte  swal 
lowed  again. 

"Well,"  said  the  man,  "I  am  glad  I  overtook  you,  for  1 
don't  think  you  would  ever  have  reached  home  alive." 

About  six  miles  from  the  city  an  open  buggy  passed  them 
swiftly.  In  it  were  seated  the  matron  and  one  of  the  gen 
tlemen  in  charge  of  the  "  Home."  They  never  thought  of 
looking  into  the  covered  wagon — and  indeed  one  can  travel 
in  one  of  those  vehicles,  so  popular  in  some  parts  of  New 
England,  with  as  much  privacy  as  he  could  in  his  tomb. 
The  two  in  the  buggy  were  seriously  alarmed,  and  anxious 
for  the  safety  of  the  old  women,  who  were  chuckling  ma 
liciously  in  the  wagon  they  soon  left  far  behind.  Harriet 
had  watched  them  breathlessly  until  they  disappeared  on  a 
curve  of  the  road  ;  then  she  whispered  to  Charlotte. 

A  little  after  noon  the  two  old  women  crept  slowly  up 
the  foot-path  across  the  field  to  their  old  home. 

"  The  clover  is  up  to  our  knees,"  said  Harriet ;  "  an'  the 
sorrel  and  the  white-weed  ;  an'  there's  lots  of  yaller  butter 
flies." 

"  O  Lord,  Harriet,  thar's  a  chink,  an'  I  do  believe  I  saw 
one  of  them  yaller  butterflies  go  past  it,"  cried  Charlotte, 
trembling  all  over,  and  nodding  her  gray  head  violently. 

Harriet  stood  on  the  old  sunken  door-step  and  fitted  the 


A  MISTAKEN  CHARITY.  249 

key,  which  she  drew  triumphantly  from  her  pocket,  in  the 
lock,  while  Charlotte  stood  waiting  and  shaking  behind 
her. 

Then  they  went  in.  Everything  was  there  just  as  they 
had  left  it.  Charlotte  sank  down  on  a  chair  and  began  to 
cry.  Harriet  hurried  across  to  the  window  that  looked  out 
on  the  garden. 

"The  currants  air  ripe,"  said  she;  "art  them  pumpkins 
hev  run  all  over  everything." 

"  O  Lord,  Harrie't,"  sobbed  Charlotte,  "  thar  is  so  many 
chinks  that  they  air  all  runnin'  together !" 


GENTIAN. 

IT  had  been  raining  hard  all  night ;  when  the  morning 

dawned  clear  everything  looked  vivid  and  unnatural.     The 

jwet  leaves  on  the  trees  and  hedges  seemed  to  emit  a  real 

green  light  of  their  own  ;  the  tree  trunks  were  black  and 

dank,  and  the  spots  of  moss  on  them  stood  out  distinctly. 

A  tall  old  woman  was  coming  quickly  up  the  street.  She 
had  on  a  stiffly  starched  calico  gown,  which  sprang  and 
rattled  as  she  walked.  She  kept  smoothing  it  anxiously. 
"Gittin'  every  mite  of  the  stifFnin'  out,"  she  muttered  to 
herself. 

She  stopped  at  a  long  cottage  house,  whose  unpainted 
walls,  with  white  window-facings,  and  wide  sweep  of  shingled 
roof,  looked  dark  and  startling  through  being  sodden  with 
rain. 

There  was  a  low  stone  wall  by  way  of  fence,  with  a  gap 
in  it  for  a  gate. 

She  had  just  passed  through  this  gap  when  the  house 
door  opened,  and  a  woman  put  out  her  head. 

"  Is  that  you,  Hannah  ?"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  it's  me."  She  laid  a  hard  emphasis  on  the  last 
\7ord  ;  then  she  sighed  heavily. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  hold  your  dress  up  comin'  through 
that  wet  grass,  Hannah  ?  You'll  git  it  all  bedraggled." 


GENTIAN.  251 

"  I  know  it.  I'm  a-gittin'  every  mite  of  the  stifTnin1  out 
on't.  I  worked  half  the  forenoon  ironin'  on't  yesterday, 
too.  Well,  I  thought  I'd  got  to  git  over  here  an'  fetch  a 
few  of  these  fried  cakes.  I  thought  mebbe  Alferd  would 
relish  'em  fur  his  breakfast ;  an'  he'd  got  to  have  'em  while 
they  was  hot ;  they  ain't  good  fur  nothin'  cold  ;  an'  I  didn't 
hev  a  soul  to  send — never  do.  How  is  Alferd  this  mornin', 
Lucy?" 

"'Bout  the  same,  I  guess." 

"  'Ain't  had  the  doctor  yit  ?" 

"  No."  She  had  a  little,  patient,  pleasant  smile  on  her 
face,  looking  up  at  her  questioner. 

The  women  were  sisters.  Hannah  was  Hannah  Orton, 
unmarried.  Lucy  was  Mrs.  Toilet.  Alfred  was  her  sick 
husband. 

Hannah's  long,  sallow  face  was  deeply  wrinkled.  Her 
wide  mouth  twisted  emphatically  as  she  talked. 

"  Well,  I  know  one  thing ;  ef  he  was  my  husband  he'd 
hev  a  doctor." 

Mrs.  Toilet's  voice  was  old,  but  there  was  a  childish  tone 
in  it,  a  sweet,  uncertain  pipe. 

"  No ;  you  couldn't  make  him,  Hannah ;  you  couldn't, 
no  more'n  me.  Alferd  was  allers  jest  so.  He  ain't  never 
thought  nothin'  of  doctors,  nor  doctors'  stuff." 

"  Well,  I'd  make  him  take  somethin'.  In  my  opinion  he 
needs  somethin'  bitter."  She  screwed  her  mouth  as  if  the 
bitter  morsel  were  on  her  own  tongue. 

"  Lor' !  he  wouldn't  take  it,  you  know,  Hannah.'* 

"  He'd  hev  to.     Gentian  would  be  good  fur  him." 

"  He  wouldn't  tech  it." 

"  I'd  make  him,  ef  I  put  it  in  his  tea  unbeknownst  to 
him." 


252  GENTIAN. 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  dare  to." 

"  Land  !  I  guess  I'd  dare  to.  Ef  folks  don't  know  enough 
to  take  what's  good  fur  'em,  they'd  orter  be  made  to  by 
hook  or  crook.  I  don't  believe  in  deceivin*  generally,  but 
I  don't  believe  the  Lord  would  hev  let  folks  hed  the  faculty 
fur  deceivin'  in  'em  ef  it  wa'n't  to  be  used  fur  good  some 
times.  It's  my  opinion  Alferd  won't  last  long  ef  he  don't 
hev  somethin'  pretty  soon  to  strengthen  of  him  up  an'  give 
him  a  start.  Well,  it  ain't  no  use  talkin'.  I've  got  to  git  home 
an'  put  this  dress  in  the  wash-tub  agin,  I  s'pose.  I  never 
see  such  a  sight — jest  look  at  that !  You'd  better  give 
Alferd  those  cakes  afore  they  git  cold." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  he  relished  'em.  You  was  real 
good  to  think  of  it,  Hannah." 

"  Well,  I'm  a-goin'.  Every  mite  of  the  stifY'nin's  out. 
Sometimes  it  seems  as  ef  thar  wa'n't  no  end  to  the  work. 
I  didn't  know  how  to  git  out  this  mornin',  anyway." 

When  Mrs.  Toilet  entered  the  house  she  found  her  hus 
band  in  a  wooden  rocking-chair  with  a  calico  cushion,  by 
the  kitchen  window.  He  was  a  short,  large-framed  old 
man,  but  he  was  very  thin.  There  were  great  hollows  in 
his  yellow  cheeks. 

"  What  you  got  thar,  Lucy  ?" 

"  Some  griddle-cakes  Hannah  brought." 

"  Griddle-cakes !" 

"  They're  real  nice-lookin'  ones.  Don't  you  think  you'd 
relish  one  or  two,  Alferd  ?" 

"  Ef  you  an'  Hannah  want  griddle-cakes,  you  kin  hev 
griddle-cakes." 

"  Then  you  don't  want  to  hev  one,  with  some  maple  mer- 
lasses  on  it  ?  They've  kept  hot ;  she  hed  'em  kivered  up." 

"  Take  'em  away  !" 


GENTIAN.  253 

She  set  them  meekly  on  the  pantry  shelf;  then  she  came 
back  and  stood  before  her  husband,  gentle  deprecation  in 
her  soft  old  face  and  in  the  whole  poise  of  her  little  slender 
body. 

"  What  will  you  hev  fur  breakfast,  Alferd  ?" 

"  I  don'  know.  Well,  you  might  as  well  fry  a  little  slice 
of  bacon,  an'  git  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Ain't  you  'most  afeard  of — bacon,  Alferd?" 

"  No,  I  ain't.  Ef  anybody's  sick,  they  kin  tell  what  they 
want  themselves  'bout  as  well's  anybody  kin  tell  'em.  They 
don't  hev  any  hankerin'  arter  anythin'  unless  it's  good 
for  'em.  WThen  they  need  anythin',  natur  gives  'em  a  long- 
in'  arter  it.  I  wish  you'd  hurry  up  an'  cook  that  bacon, 
Lucy.  I'm  awful  faint  at  my  stomach." 

She  cooked  the  bacon  and  made  the  tea  with  no  more 
words.  Indeed,  it  was  seldom  that  she  used  as  many  as 
she  had  now.  Alfred  Toilet,  ever  since  she  had  married 
him,  had  been  the  sole  autocrat  of  all  her  little  Russias  \ 
her  very  thoughts  had  followed  after  him,  like  sheep. 

After  breakfast  she  went  about  putting  her  house  in  order 
for  the  day.  When  that  was  done,  and  she  was  ready  to 
sit  down  with  her  sewing,  she  found  that  her  husband  had 
fallen  asleep  in  his  chair.  She  stood  over  him  a  minute, 
looking  at  his  pale  old  face  with  the  sincerest  love  and  rev 
erence.  Then  she  sat  down  by  the  window  and  sewed,  but 
not  long.  She  got  her  bonnet  and  shawl  stealthily,  and 
stole  out  of  the  house.  She  sped  quickly  down  the  village 
street.  She  was  light-footed  for  an  old  woman.  She  slack 
ened  her  pace  when  she  reached  the  village  store,  and 
crept  hesitatingly  into  the  great  lumbering,  rank-smelling 
room,  with  its  dark,  newly-sprinkled  floor.  She  bought  a 
bar  of  soap  ;  then  she  stood  irresolute. 
17 


254  GENTIAN. 

"  Anything  else  this  mornin',  Mis'  Toilet  ?"  The  propri 
etor  himself,  a  narrow-shouldered,  irritable  man,  was  wait 
ing  on  her.  His  tone  was  impatient.  Mrs.  Toilet  was  too 
absorbed  to  notice,  it.  She  stood  hesitating. 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  want?" 

•  "  Well — I  don'  know ;  but — p'rhaps  I'd  better — hev — 
ten  cents'  wuth  of  gentian."  Her  very  lips  were  white  ;  she 
had  an  expression  of  frightened,  guilty  resolution.  If  she 
had  asked  for  strychnine,  with  a  view  to  her  own  bodily  de 
struction,  she  would  not  have  had  a  different  look. 

The  man  mistook  it,  and  his  conscience  smote  him.  He 
thought  his  manner  had  frightened  her,  but  she  had  never 
noticed  it. 

"Coin'  to  give  your  husband  some  bitters?"  he  asked, 
affably,  as  he  handed  her  the  package. 

She  started  and  blushed.  "  No — I — thought  some  would 
be  good  fur — me." 

"  Well,  gentian  is  a  first-rate  bitter.  Good-morning,  Mis' 
Toilet." 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Gill." 

She  was  trembling  all  over  when  she  reached  her  house 
door.  There  is  a  subtle,  easily  raised  wind  which  blows 
spirits  about  like  leaves,  and  she  had  come  into  it  with  her 
little  paper  of  gentian.  She  had  hidden  the  parcel  in  her 
pocket  before  she  entered  the  kitchen.  Her  husband  was 
awake.  He  turned  his  wondering,  half-resentful  eyes  tow 
ards  her  without  moving  his  head. 

"  Where  hev  you  been,  Lucy  ?'' 

"  I — jest  went  down  to  the  store  a  minit,  Alferd,  while 
you  was  asleep.' 

"What  fur?" 

"  A  bar  of  soap." 


GENTIAN.  255 

Alfred  Toilet  had  always  been  a  very  healthy  man  un 
til  this  spring.  Some  people  thought  that  his  illness  was 
alarming  now,  more  from  its  unwontedness  and  consequent 
effect  on  his  mind,  than  from  anything  serious  in  its  nature. 
However  that  may  have  been,  he  had  complained  of  great 
depression  and  languor  all  the  spring,  and  had  not  at 
tempted  to  do  any  work. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  May  now. 

"  Ef  Alferd  kin  only  git  up  May  hill,"  Mrs.  Toilet's  sister 
had  said  to  her,  "  he'll  git  along  all  right  through  the  sum 
mer.  It's  a  dretful  tryin'  time." 

So  up  May  hill,  under  the  white  apple  and  plum  boughs, 
over  the  dandelions  and  the  young  grass,  Alfred  Toilet 
climbed,  pushed  and  led  faithfully  by  his  loving  old  wife. 
At  last  he  stood  triumphantly  on  the  summit  of  that  fair 
hill,  with  its  sweet,  wearisome  ascent.  When  the  first  of 
June  came,  people  said,  "Alfred  Toilet's  a  good  deal 
better." 

He  began  to  plant  a  little  and  bestir  himself. 
"  Alferd's  out  workin'  in  the  garden,"  Mrs.  Toilet  told 
her  sister  one  afternoon.     She  had  strolled  over  to  her 
house  with  her  knitting  after  dinner. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !     Well,  I  thought  when  I  see  him 
Sunday  that  he  was  lookin'  better.     He's  got  through  May, 
an;  I  guess  he'll  pull  through.     I  did  feel  kinder  worried 
'bout  him  one  spell —    Why,  Lucy,  what's  the  matter?" 
"Nothin'.    Why?" 

"  You  looked  at  me  dretful  kind  of  queer  an'  distressed, 
I  tnought." 

''  I  guess  you  must  hev  imagined  it,  Hannah.  Thar  ain't 
nothin'  the  matter."  She  tried  to  look  unconcernedly  at 
her  sister,  but  her  lips  were  trembling. 


256  GENTIAN. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  'bout  it.  You  look  kinder  queer 
now.  I  guess  you  walked  too  fast  com  in'  over  here.  You 
allers  did  race." 

"  Mebbe  I  did." 

"For  the  land's  sake,  jest  see  that  dust  you  tracked  in! 
I've  got  to  git  the  dust-pan  an'  brush  now,  an'  sweep  it  up." 

"I'll  doit." 

"  No  ;  set  still.     I'd  rather  see  to  it  myself." 

As  the  summer  went  on  Alfred  Toilet  continued  to  im 
prove.  He  was  as  hearty  as  ever  by  September.  But  his 
wife  seemed  to  lose  as  he  gained.  She  grew  thin,  and  her 
small  face  had  a  solemn,  anxious  look.  She  went  out  very 
little.  She  did  not  go  to  church  at  all,  and  she  hadj^een  a 
devout  church-goer.  Occasionally  she  went  over  to  her 
sister's,  that  was  all.  Hannah  watched  her  shrewdly.  She 
was  a  woman  who  arrived  at  conclusions  slowly ;  but  she 
never  turned  aside  from  the  road  to  them. 

" Look-a  here,  Lucy,"  she  said  one  day,  "I  know  what's 
the  matter  with  you  ;  thar's  somethin'  on  your  mind  ;  an'  I 
think  you'd  better  out  with  it." 

The  words  seemed  propelled  like  bullets  by  her  vehe 
mence.  Lucy  shrank  down  and  away  from  them,  her  piti 
ful  eyes  turned  up  towards  her  sister. 

"  Oh,  Hannah,  you  scare  me ;  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  Do  you  s'pose  I'm  blind  ?  You're  wor 
rying  yourself  to  death,  an'  I  want  to  know  the  reason  why. 
Is  it  anything  'bout  Alferd  ?" 

"Yes— don't,  Hannah." 

"  Well,  I'll  go  over  an'  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  ! 
I'll  see—" 

"  Oh,  Hannah,  don't !     It  ain't  him.     It's  me — it's  me." 


GENTIAN.  257 

"What  on  airth  hev  you  done?" 

Mrs.  Toilet  began  to  sob.  . 

"  For  the  land  sake,  stop  cryin'  an'  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  I — give  him — gentian." 

"  Lucy  Ann  Toilet,  air  you  crazy  ?  What  ef  you  did  give 
him  gentian  ?  I  don't  see  nothin'  to  take  on  so  about." 

"  I — deceived  him,  an'  it's  been  'most  killin'  me  to  think 
on't  ever  since." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  put  it  in  his  tea,  the  way  you  said." 

"  An'  he  never  knew  it  ?" 

"  He  kinder  complained  'bout  its  tastm'  bitter,  an'  I  told 
him  'twas  his  mouth.  He  asked  me  ef  it  didn't  taste  bitter 
to  me,  an'  I  said,  '  No.'  I  don'  know  nothin'  what's  goin'  to 
become  of  me.  Then  I  had  to  be  so  keerful  'bout  putting 
too  much  on't  in  his  tea,  that  I  was  afraid  he  wouldn't  get 
enough.  So  I  put  little  sprinklin's  on't  in  the  bread  an' 
pies  an'  everythin'  I  cooked.  An'  when  he'd  say  nothin' 
tasted  right  nowadays,  an'  somehow  everything  was  kinder 
bitterish,  I'd  tell  him  it  must  be  his  mouth." 

"  Look  here,  Lucy,  you  didn't  eat  everythin'  with  gentian 
in  it  yourself?" 

"Course  I  did." 

"  Fur  the  land  sake  !" 

"  I  s'pose  the  stuff  must  hev  done  him  good  ;  he's  picked 
right  up  ever  since  he  begun  takin'  it.  But  I  can't  git  over 
my  deceivin'  of  him  so.  I've  'bout  made  up  my  mind  to 
tell  him." 

"  Well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is  you're  a  big  fool  if  you  do. 
I  declare,  Lucy  Ann  Toilet,  I  never  saw  sech  a  woman  ! 
The  idee  of  your  worryin'  over  such  a  thing  as  that,  when 
it's  done  Alferd  good,  too  !  P'rhaps  you'd  ruther  he'd  died  ?" 


258  GENTIAN. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I  bed  'most  ruther." 

"  Well !" 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  Mrs.  Toilet  did  tell  her  hus 
band.  He  received  her  disclosure  in  precisely  the  way  she 
had  known  that  he  would.  Her  nerves  received  just  the 
shock  which  they  were  braced  to  meet. 

They  had  come  home  from  meeting  on  a  Sunday  night. 
Mrs.  Toilet  stood  before  him ;  she  had  not  even  taken  off 
her  shawl  and  little  black  bonnet. 

"  Alferd,"  said  she,  "  I've  got  somethin'  to  tell  you  ;  it's 
been  on  my  mind  a  long  time.  I  meant  it  all  fur  the  best ; 
but  I've  been  doin'  somethin'  wrong.  I've  been  cleceivin' 
of  you.  I  give  you  gentian  last  spring  when  you  was  so 
poorly.  I  put  little  sprinklin's  on't  into  everything  you  ate. 
An'  I  didn't  tell  the  truth  when  I  said  'twas  your  mouth, 
an'  it  didn't  taste  bitter  to  me." 

The  old  man  half  closed  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  her  in 
tently ;  his  mouth  widened  out  rigidly.  "You  put  a  little 
gentian  into  everything  I  ate  unbeknownst  to  me,  did  you  ?" 
said  he.  "  H'm  !" 

"  Oh,  Alferd,  don't  look  at  me  so  !  I  meant  it  all  fur  the 
best.  I  was  afeard  you  wouldn't  git  well  without  you  hed 
it,  Alferd.  I  was  dretful  worried  about  you ;  you  didn't 
know  nothin'  about  it,  but  I  was.  I  laid  awake  nights 
a-worryin'  an'  prayin.  I  know  I  did  wrong;  it  vva'n't  right 
to  deceive  you,  but  it  was  all  along  of  my  worryin'  an'  my 
thinkin'  so  much  of  you,  Alferd.  I  was  afeard  you'd  die 
an'  leave  me  all  alone ;  an' — it  'most  killed  me  to  think 
on't." 

Mr.  Toilet  pulled  off  his  boots,  then  pattered  heavily 
about  the  house,  locking  the  doors  and  making  preparations 
for  retiring.  He  would  not  speak  another  word  to  his  wife 


GENTIAN.  259 

about  the  matter,  though  she  kept  on  with  her  piteous  little 
protestations. 

Next  morning,  while  she  was  getting  breakfast,  he  went 
down  to  the  store.  The  meal,  a  nice  one — she  had  taken 
unusual  pains  with  it — was  on  the  table  when  he  returned ; 
but  he  never  glanced  at  it.  His  hands  were  full  of  bundles, 
which  he  opened  with  painstaking  deliberation.  His  wife 
watched  apprehensively.  There  was  a  new  teapot,  a  pound 
of  tea,  and  some  bread  and  cheese,  also  a  salt  mackerel. 

Mrs.  Toilet's  eyes  shone  round  and  big;  her  lips  were 
white.  Her  husband  put  a  pinch  of  tea  in  the  new  teapot, 
and  filled  it  with  boiling  water  from  the  kettle. 

"What  air  you  a-doin'  on,  Alferd?"  she  asked,  feebly. 

"I'm  jest  a-goin'  to  make  sure  I  hev  some  tea,  an'  some- j 
thin'  to  eat  without  any  gentian  in  it." 

"  Oh,  Alferd,  I  made  these  corn-cakes  on  purpose,  an' 
they  air  real  light.  They  'ain't  got  no  gentian  on  'em,  Al 
ferd." 

He  sliced  his  bread  and  cheese  clumsily,  and  sat  down 
to  eat  them  in  stubborn  silence. 

Mrs.  Toilet,  motionless  at  her  end  of  the  table,  stared  at 
him  with  an  appalled  look.  She  never  thought  of  eating 
anything  herself. 

After  breakfast,  when  her  husband  started  out  to  work, 
he  pointed  at  the  mackerel.  "  Don't  you  tech  that,"  said  he. 

"  But,  Alferd—" 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  more  to  say.     Don't  you  tech  it." 

Never  a  morning  had  passed  before  but  Lucy  Toilet  had 
set  her  house  in  order ;  to-day  she  remained  there  at  the 
kitchen-table  till  noon,  and  did  not  put  away  the  breakfast 
dishes. 

Alfred  came  home,  kindled  up  the  fire,  cooked  and  ate 


260  GENTIAN. 

his  salt  mackerel  imperturbably ;  and  she  did  not  move  or 
speak  till  he  was  about  to  go  away  again.  Then  she  said, 
in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  shrink  of  itself,  "  Alferd !" 

He  did  not  turn  his  head. 

"Alferd,  you  must  answer  me;  I'm  in  airnest.  Don't 
you  want  me  to  do  nothin'  fur  you  any  more  ?  Don't  you 
never  want  me  to  cook  anything  fur  you  agin  ?" 

"No  ;  I'm  afeard  of  gittin'  things  that's  bitter." 

"I  won't  never  put  any  gentian  in  anything  agin,  Alferd. 
Won't  you  let  me  git  supper  ?" 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  don't  want  to  talk  no  more  about  it. 
In  futur  I'm  a-goin'  to  cook  my  vittles  myself,  an'  that's  all 
thar  is  about  it." 

"Alferd,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  do  nothin'  fur  you,  meb- 
be — you'll  think  I  ain't  airnin'  my  own  vittles  ;  mebbe — 
you'd  rather  I  go  over  to  Hannah's — " 

She  sobbed  aloud  when  she  said  that.  He  looked  startled, 
and  eyed  her  sharply  for  a  minute.  The  other  performer  in 
the  little  melodrama  which  this  thwarted,  arbitrary  old  man 
had  arranged  was  adopting  a  -/0/<?_that  he  had  not  antici 
pated,  but  he  was  still  going  to  abide  by  his  own.  sfi<*iw» 

"Mebbe  'twould  be  jest  as  well,"  said  he.  Then  he  went 
out  of  the  door. 

Hannah  Orton  was  in  her  kitchen  sewing  when  her  sister 
entered. 

"  Fur  the  land  sake,  Lucy,  what  is  the'  matter  ?" 

"  I've  left  him— I've  left  Alferd  !     Oh  !  oh !" 

Lucy  Toilet  gasped  for  breath  j  she  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall.  Hannah  got  some 
water. 

"  Don't,  Lucy — there,  there  !     Drink  this,  poor  lamb  !" 

She  did  not  quite  faint.     She  could  speak  in  a  few  min- 


GENTIAN.  261 

utes.  "  He  bought  him  a  new  tea-pot  this  mornin',  Han 
nah,  an'  some  bread  an'  cheese  and  salt  mackerel.  He's 
goin'  to  do  his  own  cookin' ;  he  don't  want  me  to  do  noth- 
in'  more  fur  him ;  he's  afeard  I'll  put  gentian  in  it.  I've 
left  him  !  I've  come  to  stay  with  you  !" 

"You  told  him,  then?" 

"  I  hed  to  ;  I  couldn't  go  on  so  no  longer.  He  wouldn't 
let  me  tech  that  mackerel,  an'  it  orter  hev  been  soaked.  It 
was  salt  enough  to  kill  him." 

"Serve  him  right  ef  it  did." 

"Hannah  Orton,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  hev  a  thing  said  agin 
Alferd." 

"  Well,  ef  you  want  to  stan'  up  fur  Alferd  Toilet,  you  kin. 
You  allers  would  stan'  up  fur  him  agin  your  own  folks.  Ef 
you  want  to  keep  on  carin'  fur  sech  a  miserable,  set,  un- 
feelin'— " 

"  Don't  you  say  another  word,  Hannah — not  another  one  ; 
I  won't  hear  it." 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  say  nothin';  thar  ain't  any  need  of 
your  bein'  so  fierce.  Now  don't  cry  so,  Lucy.  We  shell  git 
along  real  nice  here  together.  You'll  get  used  to  it  arter  a 
little  while,  an'  you'll  see  you  air  a  good  deal  better  off 
without  him;  you've  been  nothin'  but  jest  a  slave  ever  since 
you  was  married.  Don't  you  s'pose  I've  seen  it?  I've  pit 
ied  you  so,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I've  seen  the  time 
when  I'd  like  to  ha'  shook  Alferd." 

"  Don't,  Hannah." 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  say  nothin'  more.  You  jest  stop  cry- 
in',  an'  try  an'  be  calm,  or  you'll  be  sick.  Hev  you  hed 
any  dinner?" 

"I  don't  want  none." 

"You've  got  to  eat  something  Lucy  Ann  Toilet.     Thar 


262  GENTIAN. 

ain't  no  sense  in  your  givin'  up  so.  I've  got  a  nice  little 
piece  of  lamb,  an'  some  pease  an'  string-beans,  left  over,  an' 
I'm  a-goin'  to  get  'em.  You've  got  to  eat  'em,  an'  then 
you'll  feel  better.  Look-a  here,  I  want  to  know  ef  Alferd 
drove  you  out  of  the  house  'cause  you  give  him  gentian  ?  I 
ain't  got  it  through  my  head  yet." 

"  I  asked  him  ef  he'd  ruther  hev  me  go,  an'  he  said 
mebbe  'twould  be  jest  as  well.  I  thought  I  shouldn't  hev 
no  right  to  stay  ef  I  couldn't  git  his  meals  for  him." 

"Right  to  stay!  Lucy  Ann  Toilet,  ef  it  wa'n't  fur  the 
grace  of  the  Lord,  I  believe  you'd  be  a  simpleton.  I  don't 
understand  no  sech  goodness ;  I  allers  thought  it  would 
run  into  foolishness  some  time,  an'  I  believe  it  has  with 
you.  Well,  don't  worry  no  more  about  it ;  set  up  an'  eat 
your  dinner.  Jest  smooth  out  that  mat  under  your  feet  a 
little ;  you've  got  it  all  scrolled  up." 

No  bitter  herb  could  have  added  anything  to  the  bitter 
ness  of  that  first  dinner  which  poor  Lucy  Toilet  ate  after 
she  had  left  her  own  home.  Time  and  custom  lessened, 
but  not  much,  the  bitterness  of  the  subsequent  ones.  Han 
nah  had  sewed  for  her  living  all  her  narrow,  single  life; 
Lucy  shared  her  work  now.  They  had  to  live  frugally; 
still  they  had  enough.  Hannah  owned  the  little  house  in 
which  she  lived. 

Lucy  Toilet  lived  with  her  through  the  fall  and  winter. 
Her  leaving  her  husband  started  a  great  whirlpool  of  ex 
citement  in  this  little  village.  Hannah's  custom  doubled: 
people  came  ostensibly  for  work,  but  really  for  information. 
They  quizzed  her  about  her  sister,  but  Hannah  could  be 
taciturn.  She  did  their  work  and  divulged  nothing,  except 
occasionally  when  she  was  surprised.  Then  she  would  let 
fall  a  few  little  hints,  which  were  not  at  Lucy's  expense. 


GENTIAN.  263 

They  never  saw  Mrs.  Toilet;  she  always  ran  when  she 
heard  any  one  coming.  She  never  went  out  to  church  nor 
on  the  street.  She  grew  to  have  a  morbid  dread  of  meeting 
her  husband  or  seeing  him.  She  would  never  sit  at  the 
window,  lest  he  might  go  past.  Hannah  could  not  under 
stand  this  ;  neither  could  Lucy  herself. 

Hannah  thought  she  was  suffering  less,  and  was  becom 
ing  weaned  from  her  affection,  because  she  did  so.     But  in 
reality  she  was  suffering  more,  and  her  faithful  love  for  heil; 
imperious  old  husband  was  strengthening. 

All  the  autumn  and  winter  she  stayed  and  worked  quiet 
ly  ;  in  the  spring  she  grew  restless,  though  not  perceptibly. 
She  had  never  bewailed  herself  much  after  the  first;  she 
dreaded  her  sister's  attacks  on  Alfred.  Silence  as  to  her 
own  grief  was  her  best  way  of  defending  him. 

Towards  spring  she  often  let  her  work  fall  in  her  lap,  and 
thought.  Then  she  would  glance  timidly  at  Hannah,  as  if 
she  could  know  what  her  thoughts  were ;  but  Hannah  was 
no  mind-reader.  Hannah,  when  she  set  out  for  meeting 
one  evening  in  May,  had  no  conception  whatever  of  the 
plan  which  was  all  matured  in  her  sister's  mind. 

Lucy  watched  her  out  of  sight ;  then  she  got  herself  ready 
quickly.  She  smoothed  her  hair,  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  started  up  the  road  towards  her  old  home. 

There  was  no  moon,  but  it  was  clear  and  starry.  The 
blooming  trees  stood  beside  the  road  like  sweet,  white, 
spring  angels  ;  there  was  a  whippoorwill  calling  somewhere 
over  across  the  fields.  Lucy  Toilet  saw  neither  stars  nor 
blooming  trees ;  she  did  not  hear  the  whippoorwill.  That 
hard,  whimsical  old  man  in  the  little  weather-beaten  house 
ahead  towered  up  like  a  grand  giant  between  the  white 


264  GENTIAN. 

and  this  one  living  old  woman  ;  his  voice  in  her  ears 


drowned  out  all  the  sweet  notes  of  the  spring  birds. 

When  she  came  in  sight  of  the  house  there  was  a  light  in 
the  kitchen  window.  She  'crept  up  to  it  softly  and  looked 
in.  Alfred  was  standing  there  with  his  hat  on.  He  was 
looking  straight  at  the  window,  and  he  saw  her  the  minute 
her  little  pale  face  came  up  above  the  sill. 

He  opened  the  door  quickly  and  came  out.  "  Lucy,  is 
that  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  Alferd,  let  me  come  home  !     I'll  never  deceive  you 


agin  ! 


"You  jest  go  straight  back  to  Hannah's  this  minute." 
She  caught  hold  of  his  coat.     "  Oh,  Alferd,  don't—  don't 
drive  me  away  agin!     It'll  kill  me  this  time;  it  will  !  it 
will  !" 

"  You  go  right  back." 

She  sank  right  down  at  his  feet  then,  and  clung  to  them. 
"  Alferd,  I  won't  go  ;  I  won't  !  I  won't  !  You  sha'n't  drive 
me  away  agin.  Oh,  Alferd,  don't  drive  me  away  from 
home!  I've  lived  here  with  you  for  fifty  year  a'most.  Let 
me  come  home  an'  cook  fur  you,  an'  do  fur  you  agin.  Oh, 
Alferd,  Alferd  !" 

"  See  here,  Lucy  —  git  up  ;  stop  takin'  on  so.  I  want  to 
tell  you  somethin'.  You  jest  go  right  back  to  Hannah's, 
an'  don't  you  worry.  You  set  down  an'  wait  a  minute. 
Thar  !" 

Lucy  looked  at  him.     "  What  do  you  mean.  Alferd?" 
"Never  you  mind;  you  jist  go  right  along." 
Lucy  Toilet   sped  back   along  the  road  to  Hannah's, 
hardly  knowing  what  she  was  about.     It  is  doubtful  if  she 
realized  anything  but  a  blind  obedience  to  her  husband's 
will,  and  a  hope  of  something  roused  by  a  new  tone  in  his 


GENTIAN.  265 

voice.  She  sat  down  on  the  door-step  and  waited,  she  did 
not  know  for  what.  In  a  few  minutes  she  heard  the  creak 
of  heavy  boots,  and  her  husband  came  in  sight.  He  walked 
straight  up  to  her. 

"I've    come    to   ask   you    to    come    home,    Lucy.     I'm 
a-feelin'  kinder  poorly  this  spring,  an' — I  want  you  ter  stew  • 
me  up  a  little  gentian.     That  you  give  me  afore  did  me  a 
sight  of  good." 

"Oh,  Alferd!" 

"That's  what  I'd  got  laid  out  to  do  when  I  see  you  at 
the  winder,  Lucy,  an'  I  was  a-goin'  to  do  it." 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

THERE  were  no  clouds  in  the  whole  sky  except  a  few 
bleak  violet-colored  ones  in  the  west.  Between  them  the 
sky  showed  a  clear,  cold  yellow.  The  air  was  very  still, 
and  the  trees  stood  out  distinctly. 

"Thar's  goin'  to  be  a  heavy  frost,  sure  enough,"  said 
Ann  Millet.  "  I'll  hev  to  git  the  squashes  in." 

She  stood  in  the  door,  surveying  the  look  outside,  as  she 
said  this.  Then  she  went  in,  and  presently  emerged  with 
a  littte  black  shawl  pinned  closely  over  her  head,  and  be 
gan  work. 

This  was  a  tiny  white-painted  house,  with  a  door  and  one 
window  in  front,  and  a  little  piazza,  over  which  the  roof 
jutted,  and  on  which  the  kitchen  door  opened,  on  the  rear 
corner.  The  squashes  were  piled  up  on  this  piazza  in  a 
great  yellow  and  green  heap. 

"A  splendid  lot  they  air"  said  Ann.  "I'd  orter  be 
thankful."  Ann  always  spoke  of  her  obligation  to  duty, 
and  never  seemed  to  think  of  herself  as  performing  the  duty 
itself.  "  I'd  orter  be  thankful,"  said  she  always. 

Her  shawl,  pinned  closely  over  her  hair  and  ears,  showed 
the  small  oval  of  her  face.  The  greater  part  of  it  seemed 
to  be  taken  up  by  a  heavy  forehead,  from  under  which 
her  deep-set  blue  eyes  looked  with  a  strange,  solemn  ex- 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  267 

pression.  She  looked  alike  at  everything,  the  clear  cold 
sky  and  the  squashes,  soberly  and  solemnly. 

This  expression,  taken  in  connection  with  her  little  del 
icate  old  face,  had  something  almost  uncanny  about  it. 
Some  people  complained  of  feeling  nervous  when  Ann 
looked  at  them. 

"  Thar's  Mis'  Stone  comin',''  said  she.  "  Hope  to  good 
ness  she  won't  stop  an'  hinder  me  !  Lor'  sakes  !  I'd  orter 
hev  more  patience." 

A  tall,  stooping  figure  came  up  the  street,  and  paused  at 
her  gate  hesitatingly. 

"  Good-evenin',  Ann." 

"  Good-evenin',  Mis'  Stone.     Come  in,  won't  ye  ?" 

Mrs.  Stone  came  through  the  gate,  walked  up  to  the  pi 
azza,  and  stopped. 

"  Gettin'  in  your  squashes,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  didn't  dare  resk  'em  out  to-night,  it's  so  cold. 
I  left  'em  out  last  year,  an'  they  got  touched,  an'  it  about 
spoilt  Jem." 

"  Well,  I  should  be  kinder  afraid  to  resk  'em  ;  it's  a  good 
deal  colder  than  I  bed  any  idea  of  when  I  come  out.  I 
thought  I'd  run  over  to  Mis'  Maxwell's  a  minute,  so  I  jest 
clapped  on  this  head-tie  an'  this  little  cape  over  my  shoul 
ders,  an'  I'm  chilled  clean  through.  I  don'  know  but  I've 
tuk  cold.  Yes  ;  I'd  take'  em  in.  We  got  ourn  in  last  week, 
such  as  they  was.  We  ain't  got  more'n  half  as  many  as 
you  hev.  I  shouldn't  think  you  could  use  'em  all,  Ann." 

"  Well,  I  do.  I  allers  liked  squashes,  an'  Willy  likes  'em 
too.  You'd  orter  see  him  brush  round  me,  a-roundin'  up 
his  back  an'  purrin'  when  I'm  a-scrapin'  of  'em  out  of  the 
shell.  He  likes  'em  better'n  fresh  meat." 

"  Seems  queer  for  a  cat  to  like  sech  things.     Ourn  won't 


268  AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

touch  'em  ;  he's  awful  dainty.     How  nice  an'  big  your  cat 
looks  a-settin'  thar  in  the  window !" 

"He's  a-watchin'  of  me.  He  jumped  up  thar  jest  the 
minute  I  come  out." 

"  He's  a  good  deal  of  company  for  you,  ain't  he?" 

"  Yes,  he  is.  What  on  airth  I  should  do  this  long  winter 
that's  comin',  without  him,  I  don'  know.  Everybody  wants 
somethin'  that's  alive  in  the  house." 

"  That's  so.  It  must  be  pretty  lonesome  for  you  any 
way.  Ruth  an'  me  often  speak  of  it,  when  we  look  over 
here,  'specially  in  the  winter  season,  some  of  them  awful 
stormy  nights  we  hev." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  complain,  anyway.  I'd  orter  be 
thankful.  I've  got  my  Bible  an'  Willy,  an'  a  roof  over  my 
head,  an'  enough  to  eat  an'  wear;  an'  a  good  many  folks 
hev  to  be  alone,  as  fur  as  other  folks  is  concerned,  on  this 
airth.  An'  p'rhaps  some  other  woman  ain't  lonesome  be 
cause  I  am,  an'  maybe  she'd  be  one  of  the  kind  that  didn't 
like  cats,  an'  wouldn't  hev  got  along  half  as  well  as  me. 
No :  I've  got  a  good  many  mercies  to  be  thankful  fur — 
more'n  I  deserve.  I  never  orter  complain." 

"  Well,  if  all  of  us  looked  at  our  mercies  more'n  our 
trials,  we'd  be  a  good  deal  happier.  But,  sakes  !  I  must 
be  goin'.  I'm  catchin'  cold,  an'  I'm  henderin1  you.  It's 
supper-time,  too.  You've  got  somethin'  cookin'  in  the 
house  that  smells  good." 

"Yes;  it's  some  stewed  tomarter.  I  allers  like  some- 
thin'  I  kin  eat  butter  an'  pepper  on  sech  a  night  as  this." 

"  Well,  somethin'  of  that  kind  is  good.  Good-night,  Ann." 

"Good-night,  Mis'  Stone.     Goin'  to  meetin'  to-night?" 

"I'm  goin'  ef  Ruth  don't.  One  of  us  has  to  stay  with 
the  children,  you  know.  Good-night." 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  269 

Mrs.  Stone  had  spoken  in  a  very  high-pitched  tone  all 
the  while.  Ann  was  somewhat  deaf.  She  had  spoken 
loudly  and  shrilly,  too ;  so  now  there  was  a  sudden  lull, 
and  one  could  hear  a  cricket  chirping  somewhere  about  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Stone,  pulling  her  tiny  drab  cape  tighter  across  her 
stooping,  rounded  shoulders,  hitched  rapidly  down  the  street 
to  her  own  home,  which  stood  on  the  opposite  side,  a  little 
below  Ann's,  and  Ann  went  on  tugging  in  her  squashes. 

"  I'm  glad  she's  gone,"  she  muttered,  looking  after  Mrs. 
Stone's  retreating  figure.  "  I  didn't  know  how  to  be  hen- 
dered  a  minute.  I'd  orter  hev  more  patience." 

She  had  to  carry  in  the  squashes  one  at  a  time.  She  was 
a  little  woman,  and  although  she  had  been  used  to  hard 
work  all  her  life,  it  had  not  been  of  a  kind  to  strengthen 
her  muscles  :  she  had  been  a  dressmaker.  So  she  stepped 
patiently  into  her  kitchen  with  a  squash,  and  out  without 
one  ;  then  in  again  with  one.  She  piled  them  up  in  a  heap 
on  the  floor  in  a  corner. 

"  They'll  hev  to  go  up  on  that  shelf  over  the  mantel,"  said 
she,  "  to-morrow.  I  can't  git  'em  up  thar  to-night  an'  go  to 
meetin'  nohow." 

She  had  a  double  shelf  of  unpainted  pine  rigged  over  the 
ordinary  one  for  her  squashes. 

After  the  squashes  were  all  in  Ann  took  off  her  shawl 
and  hung  it  on  a  nail  behind  the  kitchen  door.  Then  she 
set  her  bowl  of  smoking  hot  tomato  stew  on  a  little  table 
between  the  windows,  and  sat  down  contentedly. 

There  was  a  white  cloth  on  the  table,  and  some  bread 
and  butter  and  pie  beside  the  stew.  Ann  looked  at  it  sol 
emnly.  "  I'd  orter  be  thankful,"  said  she.  That  was  her 
way  of  saying  grace.  Then  she  fell  to  eating  with  a  relish. 
18 


27o  AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

This  solemn,  spiritual-looking  old  woman  loved  her  food, 
and  had  a  keen  lookout  for  it.  Perhaps  she  got  a  spiritual 
enjoyment  out  of  it  too,  besides  the  lower  material  one. 
Perhaps  hot  stewed  tomatoes,  made  savory  with  butter  and 
pepper  and  salt,  on  a  frosty  November  night,  had  for  her  a 
subtle  flavor  of  home  comfort  and  shelter  and  coziness,  ap 
pealing  to  her  imagination,  besides  the  commoner  one  ap 
pealing  to  her  palate. 

Before  anything  else,  though — before  seating  herself— 
she  had  given  her  cat  his  saucer  of  warm  milk  in  a  snug 
corner  by  the  stove.  He  was  a  beautiful  little  animal,  with 
a  handsome  dark  striped  coat  on  his  back,  and  white  paws 
and  face. 

When  he  had  finished  lapping  his  milk,  he  came  and 
stood  beside  his  mistress's  chair  while  she  ate,  and  purred 
— he  rarely  mewed — and  she  gave  him  bits  of  bread  from 
her  plate  now  and  then.  She  talked  to  him  too.  "  Nice 
Willy,"  said  she,  "  nice  cat.  Got  up  on  the  window  to  see 
me  bring  in  the  squashes,  didn't  he?  There's  a  beautiful 
lot  of  'ern,  an'  he  shall  hev  some  stewed  for  his  dinner  to 
morrow,  so  he  shall." 

And  the  cat  would  purr,  and  rub  his  soft  coat  against  her, 
and  look  as  if  he  knew  just  what  she  meant. 

There  was  a  prayer-meeting  in  the  church  vestry  that  even 
ing,  and  Ann  Millet  went.  She  never  missed  one."  The 
minister,  when  he  entered,  always  found  her  sitting  there 
at  the  head  of  the  third  seat  from  the  front,  in  the  right-hand 
row — always  in  the  same  place,  a  meek,  erect  little  figure, 
in  a  poor,  tidy  black  bonnet  and  an  obsolete  black  coat, 
with  no  seam  in  the  whole  of  the  voluminous  back.  That 
had  been  the  style  of  outside  garments  when  Miss  Millet 
had  laid  aside  dressmaking,  and  she  had  never  gone  a  step 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  271 

further  in  fashions.  She  had  stopped  just  where  she  was, 
and  treated  her  old  patterns  as  conservatively  as  she  did 
her  Bible. 

She  had  had  a  pretty  voice  when  she  was  young,  people 
said,  and  she  sang  now  in  a  thin  sweet  quaver  the  hymns 
which  the  minister  gave  out.  She  listened  in  solemn  en 
joyment  to  the  stereotyped  prayers  and  the  speaker's  re 
marks.  He  was  a  dull,  middle-aged  preacher  in  a  dull 
country  town. 

After  meeting  Ann  went  up  and  told  him  how  much  she 
had  enjoyed  his  remarks,  and  inquired  after  his  wife  and 
children.  She  always  did.  To  her  a  minister  was  an  un 
published  apostle,  and  his  wife  and  family  were  set  apart  on 
the  earth.  No  matter  how  dull  a  parson  labored  here,  he 
would  always  have  one  disciple  in  this  old  woman. 

When  Ann  had  walked  home  through  the  frosty  starlight, 
she  lit  her  lamp  first,  and  then  she  called  her  cat.  She 
had  expected  to  find  him  waiting  to  be  let  in,  but  he  was 
not.  She  stood  out  on  her  little  piazza,  which  ran  along 
the  rear  corner  of  her  house  by  her  kitchen-door,  and  called, 
"Willy!  Willy!  Willy!" 

She  thought  every  minute  she  would  see  him  come 
bounding  around  the  corner,  but  she  did  not.  She  called 
over  and  over  and  over,  in  her  shrill,  anxious  pipe,  "  Willy  ! 
Willy !  Willy  \  Kitty  !  Kitty  !  Kitty  !" 

Finally  she  went  into  the  house  and  waited  awhile, 
crouching,  shivering  with  cold  and  nervousness,  over  the 
kitchen  stove.  Then  she  went  outside  and  called  again, 
"Willy!  Willy!  Willy!"  over  and  over,  waiting  between 
the  calls,  trembling,  her  dull  old  ears  alert,  her  dim  old  eyes 
strained.  She  ran  out  to  the  road,  and  looked  and  called, 
and  down  to  the  dreary  garden-patch  behind  the  house, 


272  AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

among  the  withered  corn-stalks  and  the  mouldering  squash- 
vines  all  white  with  frost.  Once  her  heart  leaped  ;  she 
thought  she  saw  Willy  coming  ;  but  it  was  only  a  black  cat 
which  belonged  to  one  of  the  neighbors.  Then  she  went 
into  the  house  and  waited  a  little  while ;  then  out  again, 
calling  shrilly,  "  Willy  \  Willy  !" 

There  were  northern  lights  streaking  the  sky  ;  the  stars 
shone  steadily  through  the  rosy  glow ;  it  was  very  still  and 
lonesome  and  cold.  The  little  thin, -shivering  old  woman 
standing  out-doors,  all  alone  in  the  rude,  chilly  night  air, 
under  these  splendid  stars  and  streaming  lights,  called  over 
and  over  the  poor  little  creature  which  was  everything 
earthly  she  had  to  keep  her  company  in  the  great  universe 
in  which  she  herself  was  so  small. 

"Willy!  Willy!  Willy!"  called  Ann.  "Oh,  where  is 
that  cat  ?  Oh  dear  !  Willy  !  Willy  !" 

She  spent  the  night  that  way.  Mrs.  Stone's  daughter 
Ruth,  who  was  up  with  a  sick  child,  heard  her. 

"  Miss  Millet  must  have  lost  her  cat,"  she  told  her  mother 
in  the  morning;  "I  heard  her  calling  him  all  night  long." 

Pretty  soon,  indeed,  Ann  came  over,  her  small  old  face 
wild  and  wan.  "  Hev  you  seen  anything  of  Willy  ?"  she 
asked;  "  He's  been  out  all  night,  an'  I'm  afraid  somethin's 
happened  to  him.  I  never  knowed  him  to  stay  out  so  be 
fore." 

When  they  told  her  they  had  not,  she  >went  on  to  the 
next  neighbor's  to  inquire.  But  no  one  had  seen  anything 
of  the  cat.  All  that  day  and  night,  at  intervals,  people 
heard  her  plaintive,  inquiring  call,  "Willy!  Willy?  Willy? 
Willy !" 

The  next  Sunday  Ann  was  not  out  at  church.  It  was  a 
beautiful  day  too. 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  273 

"  I'm  goin'  to  run  over  an'  see  if  Ann  Millet's  sick,"  Mrs. 
Stone  told  her  daughter,  when  she  returned  from  church. 
"  She  wa'n't  out  to  meetin'  to-day,  and  I'm  afraid  some- 
thin's  the  matter.  I  never  knew  her  to  miss  goin'." 

So  she  went  over.  Miss  Millet  was  sitting  in  her  little 
wooden  rocking-chair  in  her  kitchen,  when  she  opened  the 
door. 

"  Why,  Ann  Millet,  are  you  sick  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't  sick." 

"  You  wa'n't  out  to  meetin',  an'  I  didn't  know — " 

"I  ain't  never  goin'  to  meetin'  agin." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

Mrs.  Stone  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  stared  at  her  neigh 
bor. 

"  I  mean  jest  what  I  say.  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  meetin' 
ngin.  Folks  go  to  meetin'  to  thank  the  Lord  for  blessin's, 
I  s'pose.  I've  lost  mine,  an'  I  ain't  goin'." 

"  What  hev  you  lost,  Ann  ?" 

"'Ain't  I  lost  Willy?" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  makin'  such  a  fuss  as  this 
over  a  cat  ?" 

Mrs.  Stone  could  make  a  good  deal  of  disapprobation 
and  contempt  manifest  in  her  pale,  high-featured  face,  and 
she  did  now. 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  nothin'  agin  cats,  but  I  must  say  I'm  beat 
Why,  Ann  Millet,  it's  downright  sinful  fur  you  to  feel  so. 
Of  course  you  set  a  good  deal  by  Willy ;  but  it  ain't  as  ef 
he  was  a  human  creature.  Cats  is  cats.  For  my  part,  I 
never  thought  it  was  right  to  set  by  animals  as  ef  they  was 
babies." 

"  I  can't  hear  what  you  say." 


274  AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

"  I  never  thought  it  was  right  to  set  by  animals  as  ef  they 
was  babies." 

^I__don't  keer.  It's  comfortin'  to  have  live  creatures 
about  you,  an'  I  ain't  never  hod  anything  like  other  women. 
I  ain't  lied  no  folks  of  my  own  sence  I  kin  remember.  I've 
worked  hard  all  my  life,  an'  hed  nothin'  at  all  to  love,  an' 
I've  thought  I'd  orter  be  thankful  all  the  same.  But  I  did 
want  as  much  as  a  cat." 

"  Well,  as  I  said  before,  I've  nothin'  agin  cats.  But  I 
don't  understand  any  human  bein'  with  an  immortal  soul 
a-settin'  so  much  by  one." 

"I  can't  hear  what  you  say."  Ann  could  usually  hear 
Mrs.  Stone's  high  voice  without  difficulty,  but  to-day  she 
seemed  deafer. 

"  I  don't  understand  any  human  bein'  with  an  immortal 
soul  a-settin'  so  much  by  a  cat." 

"You've  got  folks,  Mis'  Stone." 

"I  know  I  hev ;  but  folks  is  trials  sometimes.  Not  that 
my  children  are,  though.  I've  got  a  good  deal  to  be  thank 
ful  for,  I'll  own,  in  that  way.  But,  Ann  Millet,  I  didn't 
think  you  was  one  to  sink  down  so  under  any  trial.  I 
thought  the  Lord  would  be  a  comfort  to  you." 

"  I  know  all  that,  Mis'  Stone.  But  when  it  comes  to  it, 
I'm  here,  an'  I  ain't  thar ;  an'  I've  got  hands,  an'  I  want 
somethin'  I  kin  touch."  Then  the  poor  soul  broke  down, 
and  sobbed  out  loud,  like  a  baby:  "I  ain't — never  felt  as 
ef  I'd  orter  begrutch  other — women  their  homes  an'  their 
folks.  I  thought — p'rhaps — I  could  git  along  better  without 
'em  than — some  ;  an'  the  Lord  knowed  it,  an'  seein'  thar 
wa'n't  enough  to  go  round,  he  gave  'em  to  them  that  need 
ed  'em  most.  I  'ain't — never — felt — as  ef  I'd  orter  com 
plain.  But — thar — was — cats — enough.  I  might  'a  hed — 
that — much." 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  275 

"  You  kin  git  another  cat,  Ann.  Mis'  Maxwell's  got 
some  real  smart  kittens,  an'  I  know  she  wants  to  get  rid  of 
'em." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  Mis'  Maxwell's  kittens ;  I  don't 
never  want  any  other  cat." 

"  P'haps  yourn  will  come  back.     Now  don't  take  on  so." 

"  What  ?" 

"  P'rhaps  yourn  will  come  back." 

"  No,  he  won't.  I'll  never  see  him  agin.  I've  felt  jest 
that  way  about  it  from  the  first.  Somebody's  stole  him,  or 
he's  been  p'isoned  and  crawled  away  an'  died,  or  he's  been 
shot  fur  his  fur.  I  heerd  thar  was  a  boy  over  the  river 
makin'  a  cat-skin  kerridge  blanket,  an'  I  went  over  thar 
an'  asked  him,  an'  he  said  he  hadn't  never  shot  a  cat  like 
Willy.  But  I  dor.'  know.  Boys  ain't  brought  up  any  too 
strict.  I  hope  he  spoke  the  truth." 

"  Hark  !  I  declar'  I  thought  I  heard  a  cat  mew  some- 
whar !  But  I  guess  I  didn't.  I  don't  hear  it  now.  Well, 
I'm  sorry,  Ann.  I  s'pose  I've  got  to  go ;  thar's  dinner  to 
git,  an'  the  baby's  consider'ble  fretty  to-day.  Why,  Ann 
Millet,  whar's  your  squashes  ?" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Where  are  your  squashes  ?" 

"  I  throwed  'em  away  out  in  the  field.  Willy  can't  hev 
none  of 'em  now,  an'  I  don't  keer  about  'em  myself." 

Mrs.  Stone  looked  at  her  in  horror.  When  she  got  home 
she  told  her  daughter  that  Ann  Millet  was  in  a  dreadful 
state  of  mind,  and  she  thought  the  minister  ought  to  see 
her,  She  believed  she  should  tell  him  if  she  were  not  out 
to  meeting  that  night. 

She  was  not.  This  touch  of  grief  had  goaded  that  meek, 
reverential  natureTTnto  fierceness.  The  childish  earnest- 


276  AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

ness  which  she  had  had  in  religion  she  had  now  in  the 
other  direction.  Ann  Millet,  in  spite  of  all  excuses  that 
could  be  made  for  her,  was  for  the  time. a  wicked,  rebellious 
old  woman.  And  she  was  as  truly  so  as  if  this  petty  occa 
sion  for  it  had  been  a  graver  one  in  other  people's  estima 
tion. 

The  next  day  the  minister  called  on  her,  stimulated  by 
Mrs.  Stone's  report.  He  did  not  find  her  so  outspoken  j 
her  awe  of  him  restrained  her.  Still,  this  phase  of  her  char 
acter  was  a  revelation  to  him.  He  told  his  wife,  when  he 
returned  home,  that  he  never  should  have  known  it  was 
Ann  Millet. 

In  the  course  of  the  call  a  rap  came  at  the  kitchen  door. 

Ann  rose  and  answered  it,  hopping  nervously  across  the 
floor.  She  returned  to  the  minister  with  more  distress  in 
her  face  than  ever. 

"  Nothin'  but  a  little  gal  with  a  Malty  cat,"  said  she. 
"The  children  hev  got  wind  of  my  losin'  Willy,  an'  they 
mean  it  all  right,  but  it  seems  as  ef  I  should  fly  !  They 
keep  comin'  and  bringin'  cats.  They'll  find  a  cat  that 
they  think  mebbe  is  Willy,  an'  so  they  bring  him  to  show 
me.  They've  brought  Malty  and  white  cats,  an'  cats  all 
Malty.  They've  brought  yaller  cats  and  black,  an'  thar 
wa'n't  one  of  'em  looked  any  like  Willy.  Then  they've 
brought  kittens  that  they  knovved  wa'n't  Willy,  but  they 
thought  mebbe  I'd  like  'em  instead  of  him.  They  mean 
all  right,  I  know ;  they're  real  tender-hearted ;  but  it  'most 
kills  me.  Why,  they  brought  me  two  little  kittens  that 
hadn't  got  their  eyes  open  jest  before  you  come.  They  was 
striped  an'  white,  an'  they  said  they  thought  they'd  grow 
up  to  look  like  Willy.  They  were  the  Hooper  children,  an' 
they  knowed  him.'1 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  277 

It  would  have  been  ludicrous  if  the  poor  old  woman's 
distress  had  not  been  so  genuine.  However,  Mr.  Beal, 
the  minister,  was  not  a  man  to  see  the  ridiculous  side ;  he 
could  simply  be  puzzled,  and  that  he  was. 

It  was  a  case  entirely  outside  his  experience,  and  he  did 
not  know  how  to  deal  with  it.  He  wondered  anxiously 
what  he  had  best  say  to  her.  Finally  he  went  away  with 
out  saying  much  of  anything,  he  was  so  afraid  that  what 
he  said  might  be  out  of  proportion  to  the  demands  of  the 
case. 

It  seemed  to  him  bordering  on  sacrilege  to  treat  this 
trouble  of  Ann  Millet's  like  a  genuine  affliction,  though,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  treatment  was  what  her  state  of  mind 
seemed  to  require. 

Going  out  the  door,  he  stopped  and  listened  a  minute ; 
he  thought  he  heard  a  cat  mew.  Then  he  concluded  he 
was  mistaken,  and  went  on.  He  watched  eagerly  for  Ann 
the  next  meeting  night,  but  she  did  not  come.  It  is  doubt 
ful  whether  or  not  she  ever  would  have  done  so  if  she  had 
not  found  the  cat.  She  had  a  nature  which  could  rally  an 
enormous  amount  of  strength  for  persistency. 

But  the  day  after  the  meeting,  she  had  occasion  to  go 
down  cellar  for  something.  The  cellar  stairs  led  up  to  the 
front  part  of  the  house  ;  indeed,  the  cellar  was  under  that 
part  only.  Ann  went  through  her  chilly  sitting-room — she 
never  used  it  except  in  summer — and  opened  the  cellar 
door,  which  was  in  the  front  entry.  There  was  a  quick 
rush  from  the  gloom  below,  and  Willy  flew  up  the  cellar 
stairs. 

"  Lor'  sakes !"  said  Ann,  with  a  white,  shocked  face. 
"  He  has  been  down  thar  all  the  while.  Now  I  remember. 
He  followed  me  when  I  came  through  here  to  git  my  cloak 


278  AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE. 

that  meetin'  night,  an'  he  wanted  to  go  down  cellar,  an'  I 
let  him.     I  thought  he  wanted  to  hunt.     Lor'  sakes!" 

She  went  back  into  the  kitchen,  her  knees  trembling. 
The  cat  followed,  brushing  against  her  and  purring.  She 
poured  out  a  saucer  of  milk,  and  watched  him  hungrily  lap 
ping.  He  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  suffered,  though  he 
had  been  in  the  cellar  a  week.  But  mice  were  plenty  in 
this  old  house,  and  he  had  probably  foraged  successfully 
for  himself. 

Ann  watched  him,  the  white,  awed  look  still  on  her  face. 
"  I  s'pose  he  mewed  an'  I  didn't  hear  him.  Thar  he  was 
all  the  time,  jest  whar  I  put  him  ;  an'  me  a-blamin'  of  the 
Lord,  an'  puttin'  of  it  on  him.  I've  been  an  awful  wicked 
woman.  I  ain't  been  to  meetin',  an'  I've  talked,  an'— 
Them  squashes  I  threw  away !  It's  been  so  warm  they 
'ain't  froze,  an'  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  hadn't  orter  hev  one 
of  'em  ;  I  hadn't  orter  hev  anythin'.  I'd  orter  offer  up 
Willy.  Lor'  sakes  !  think  of  me  a-sayin'  what  I  did,  an' 
him  down  cellar !" 

That  afternoon  Mrs.  Stone  looked  across  from  her  sit 
ting-room  window  where  she  was  sewing,  and  saw  Ann 
slowly  and  painfully  bringing  in  squashes  one  at  a  time. 

"Look  here,  Ruth,"  she  called  to  her  daughter.  "Jest 
you  see.  Ann  Millet's  bringing  in  them  squashes  she 
threw  away.  I  don't  believe  but  what  she's  come  to  her 
senses." 

The  next  meeting  night  Ann  was  in  her  place.  The  min 
ister  saw  her,  rejoicing.  After  meeting  he  hurried  out  of 
his  desk  to  speak  to  her.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  coming 
to  see  him  ?s  usual. 

When  she  looked  up  at  him  there  was  an  odd  expression 
on  her  face.  Her  old  cheeks  were  flushing. 


AN  OBJECT  OF  LOVE.  279 

"  I  am  rejoiced   to  see  you  out,  Miss  Millet,"  said  the 

-minister,  shaking  her  hand. 

"  Yes.     I  thought  I'd  come  out  to-night." 

"  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you  are  feeling  better." 

.  "  The  cat  has  come  back,"  said  Ann. 


A  GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 

A  DAMP  air  was  blowing  up,  and  the  frogs  were  begin 
ning  to  peep.     The  sun  was  setting  in  a  low  red  sky.     On 
both  sides  of  the  road  were  rich  green  meadows  intersected 
by  little  canal-like  brooks.     Beyond  the  meadows  on  the 
west  was  a  distant  stretch  of  pine  woods,  that  showed  dark 
f  against  the  clear  sky.     Amelia  Flower  was  going  along  the 
f    road  towards  her  home,  with  a  great  sheaf  of  leaves  and 
\  flowers  in  her  arms.     There  were  the  rosy  spikes  of  hard- 
hack  ;  the  great  white  corymbs  of  thoroughwort,  and  the 
long   blue    racemes   of   lobelia.     Then    there   were   great 
bunches  of  the  odorous  tansy  and  pennyroyal  in  with  the 
rest 

^*   Aurelia  was  a  tall,  strongly-built  woman  ;   she  was  not 

',    much  over  thirty,  but  she  looked  older.     Her  complexion 

^    had  a  hard  red  tinge  from  exposure  to  sun  and  wind,  and 

showed  seams  as  unreservedly  as  granite.     Her  face  was 

thin,  and  her  cheek-bones  high.     She  had  a  profusion  of 

auburn  hair,  showing  in  a  loose  slipping  coil  beneath  her 

limp  black  straw  hat.     Her  dress,  as  a  matter  of  fashion, 

V  was  execrable  ;  in  point  of  harmony  with  her  immediate  sur- 

.  \  roundings,  very  well,  though  she  had  not  thought  of  it  in 

)  that  way.     There  was  a  green  under-skirt,  and  a  brown 

over-skirt  and  basque  of  an  obsolete  cut.     She  had  worn  it 


A   GATHERER  OF  SIMPLES.  281 

just  so  for  a  good  many  years,  and  never  thought  of  alter 
ing  it.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  her  that  though  her 
name  was  Flower,  she  was  not  really  a  flower  in  regard  to 
apparel,  and  had  not  its  right  of  unchangeableness  in  the 
spring.  When  the  trees  hung  out  their  catkins,  she  flaunted 
her  poor  old  greens  and  browns  under  them,  rejoicing,  and 
never  dreamed  but  they  looked  all  right.  As  far  as  dress 
went,  Aurelia  was  a  happy  woman.  She  went  over  the  road 
to-night  at  a  good  pace,  her  armful  of  leaves  and  blossoms 
nodding;  her  spare,  muscular  limbs  bore  her  along  easily. 
She  had  been  over  a  good  many  miles  since  noon,  but  she 
never  thought  of  being  tired. 

Presently  she  came  in  sight  of  her  home,  a  square  un- 
painted  building,  black  with  age.  It  stood  a  little  back 
from  the  road  on  a  gentle  slope.  There  were  three  great 
maple-trees  in  front  of  the  house;  their  branches  rustled 
against  the  roof.  On  the  left  was  a  small  garden;  some 
tall  poles  thickly  twined  with  hops  were  prominent  in  it. 

Aurelia  went  round  to  the  side  door  of  the  house  with 
her  armful  of  green  things.  The  door  opened  directly  into 
the  great  kitchen.  One  on  entering  would  have  started 
back  as  one  would  on  seeing  unexpected  company  in  a 
room.  The  walls  were  as  green  as  a  lady's  bower  with 
bunches  and  festoons  of  all  sorts  of  New  England  herbs. 
There  they  hung,  their  brave  blossoms  turning  gray  and 
black,  giving  out  strange,  half-pleasant,  half -disgusting 
odors.  Aurelia  took  them  in  like  her  native  air.  "  It's 
good  to  get  home,"  murmured  she  to  herself,  for  there  was 
no  one  else  :  she  lived  alone. 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  disposed  of  her  burden  ;  then 
she  got  herself  some  supper.  She  did  not  build  a  fire  in 
the  cooking-stove,  for  she  never  drank  tea  in  warm  weather. 


282  A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 

Instead,  she  had  a  tumbler  of  root-beer  which  she  had  made 
herself.  She  set  it  out  on  one  end  of  her  kitchen-table  with 
a  slice  of  coarse  bread  and  a  saucer  of  cold  beans.  She 
sat  down  to  them  and  ate  with  a  good  appetite.  She  looked 
better  with  her  hat  off.  Her  forehead  was  an  important 
part  of  her  face ;  it  was  white  and  womanly,  and  her  red 
dish  hair  lay  round  it  in  pretty  curves  ;  then  her  brown  eyes, 
under  very  strongly  arched  brows,  showed  to  better  advan 
tage.  Taken  by  herself,  and  not  compared  with  other 
women,  Aurelia  was  not  so  bad-looking  ;  but  she  never  was 
taken  by  herself  in  that  way,  and  nobody  had  ever  given 
her  any  credit  for  comeliness.  It  would  have  been  like 
looking  at  a  jack-in-the-pulpit  and  losing  all  the  impression 
that  had  ever  been  made  on  one  by  roses  and  hyacinths, 
and  seeing  absolutely  nothing  else  but  its  green  and  brown 
lines  :  it  is  doubtful  if  it  could  be  done. 

She  had  finished  her  supper,  and  was  sorting  her  fresh 
herbs,  when  the  door  opened  and  a  woman  walked  in.  She 
had  no  bonnet  on  her  head  :  she  was  a  neighbor,  and  this 
was  an  unceremonious  little  country  place. 

"  Good-evening  'Relia,"  said  she.  There  was  an  impor 
tant  look  on  her  plain  face,  as  if  there  were  more  to  follow. 

"Good-evenin',  Mis'  Atwood.     Take  a  chair." 

"  Been  herbin'  again  ?" 

"Yes;  I  went  out  a  little  while  this  afternoon." 

"  Where'd  you  go  ? — up  on  Green  Mountain  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  went  over  to  White's  Woods.  There  were  some 
kinds  there  I  wanted." 

"You  don't  say  so!  That's  a  matter  of  six  miles,  ain't 
it  ?  Ain't  you  tired  ?" 

"  Lor',  no,"  said  Aurelia.  "  I  reckon  I'm  pretty  strong, 
or  mebbe  the  smell  of  the  herbs  keeps  me  up;"  and  she 
laughed. 


A  GATHERER  OF  SIMPLES.  283 

So  did  the  other.  "  Sure  enough — well,  mebbe  it  does. 
I  never  thought  of  that.  But  it  seems  like  a  pretty  long 
tramp  to  me,  though  my  bein'  so  fleshy  may  make  a  differ 
ence.  I  could  have  walked  it  easier  once." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  did  make  a  difference.     I  ain't  i 
got  much  flesh  to  carry  round  to  tire  me  out."  j 

"You're  always  pretty  well,  too,  ain't  you,  'Relia?" 

"  Lor',  yes  ;  I  never  knew  what  'twas  to  be  sick.  How's 
your  folks,  Mis'  Atwood?  Is  Viny  any  better  than  she 
was  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  she  is,  much.  She  feels  pretty  poorly 
most  of  the  time.  I  guess  I'll  hev  you  fix  some  more  of 
that  root-beer  for  her.  I  thought  that  seemed  to  'liven  her 
up  a  little." 

"  I've  got  a  jug  of  it  all  made,  down  cellar,  and  you  can 
take  it  when  you  go  home,  if  you  want  to." 

"  So  I  will,  if  you've  got  it.  I  was  in  Lopes  you  might 
hev  it." 

The  important  look  had  not  vanished  from  Mrs.  Atwood's 
face,  but  she  was  not  the  woman  to  tell  important  news  in 
a  hurry,  and  have  the  gusto  of  it  so  soon  over.  She  was 
one  of  the  natures  who  always  dispose  of  bread  before  pie. 
Now  she  came  to  it,  however. 

"  I  heard  some  news  to-night,  'Relia,"  said  she. 

Aurelia  picked  out  another  spray  of  hardback.  "What 
was  it?" 

"Thomas  Rankin's  dead." 

Aurelia  clutched  the  hardback  mechanically.    "  You  don't  ' 
mean  it,  Mis'  Atwood  !     When  did  he  die  ?     I  hadn't  heard 
he  was  sick." 

"  He  wasn't,  long.  Had  a  kind  of  a  fit  this  noon,  and 
died  right  off.  The  doctor — they  sent  for  Dr.  Smith  from 


284  A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 

Alden  —  called  it  sunstroke.  You  know  'twas  awful  hot, 
and  he'd  been  out  in  the  field  to  work  all  the  mornin'.  / 
think  'twas  heart  trouble ;  it's  in  the  Rankin  family  ;  his 
father  died  of  it.  Doctors  don't  know  everything." 

"  Well,  it's  a  dreadful  thing,"  said  Aurelia.  "  I  can't 
realize  it.  There  he's  left  four  little  children,  and  it  ain't 
more'n  a  year  since  Mis'  Rankin  died.  It  ain't  a  year,  is 


"It. ain't  a  year  into  a  month  and  sixteen  days,"  said 
Mrs.  Atwoocl,  solemnly.  "Viny  and  I  was  countin'  of  it 
up  just  before  I  come  in  here." 

"  Well,  I  guess  'tisn't,  come  to  think  of  it.  I  couldn't 
have  told  exactly.  The  oldest  of  those  children  ain't  more 
than  eight,  is  she  ?" 

"  Ethelind  is  eight,  coming  next  month  :  Viny  and  I  was 
reckinin'  it  up.  Then  Edith  is  six,  and  Isadore  is  five,  and 
Myrtie  ain't  but  two,  poor  little  thing." 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  will  be  done  with  'em  ?" 

"  I  clon't  know.  Viny  an'  me  was  talking  of  it  over,  and 
got  it  settled  that  her  sister,  Mis'  Loomis,  over  to  Alden, 
would  hev  to  hev  'em.  It'll  be  considerable  for  her,  too, 
for  she's  got  two  of  her  own,  and  I  don't  s'pose  Sam  Loomis 
has  got  much.  But  I  don't  see  what  else  can  be  done.  Of 
course  strangers  ain't  goin'  to  take  children  when  there  is 
folks." 

"  Wouldn't  his  mother  take  'em  ?" 

"What,  old-lady  Sears?  Lor',  no.  You  know  she  was 
dreadful  put  out  'bout  Thomas  rnarryin'  where  he  did,  and 
declared  he  shouldn't  hev  a  cent  of  her  money.  It  was  all 
her  second  husband's,  anyway.  John  Rankin  wasn't  worth 
anything.  She  won't  do  anything  for  'em.  She's  livin'  in 
great  style  down  near  the  city,  they  say.  Got  a  nice  house, 


A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES.  285 

and  keeps  help.  She  might  hev  'em  jest  as  well  as  not,  but 
she  won't.  She's  a  hard  woman  to  get  along  with,  anyhow. 
She  nagged  both  her  husbands  to  death,  an'  Thomas  never 
had  no  peace  at  home.  Guess  that  was  one  reason  why  he 
was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  married.  Mis'  Rankin  was  a 
good-tempered  soul,  if  she  wasn't  quite  so  drivin'  as  some." 

"  I  do  feel  dreadfully  to  think  of  those  children,"  said 
Aurelia. 

"  'Tis  hard  ;  but  we  must  try  an'  believe  it  will  be  ruled 
for  the  best.  I  s'pose  I  must  go,  for  I  left  Viny  all  alone." 

"Well,  if  you  must,  I'll  get  that  root-beer  for  you,  Mis' 
Atwood.  I  shall  keep  thinking  'bout  those  children  all 
night." 

A  week  or  two  after  that,  Mrs.  Atwood  had  some  more 
news  \  but  she  didn't  go  to  Aurelia  with  it,  for  Aurelia  was 
the  very  sub-essence  of  it  herself.  She  unfolded  it  gingerly 
to  her  daughter  Lavinia — a  pale,  peaked  young  woman,  who 
looked  as  if  it  would  take  more  than  Aurelia's  root-beer  to 
make  her  robust.  Aurelia  had  taken  the  youngest  Rankin 
child  for  her  own,  and  Mrs.  Atwood  had  just  heard  of  it. 
"  It's  true,"  said  she  ;  "  I  see  her  with  it  myself.  Old-lady 
Sears  never  so  much  as  sent  a  letter,  let  alone  not  coming 
to  the  funeral,  and  Mis'  Looiijis  was  glad  enough  to  get  rid 
of  it." 

Viny  drank  in  the  story  as  if  it  had  been  so  much  nour 
ishing  jelly.  Her  too  narrow  life  was  killing  her  as  much 
as  anything  else. 

Meanwhile  Aurelia  had  the  child,  and  was  actively  happy, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  to  her  own  naive  astonishment, 
for  she  had  never  known  that  she  was  not  so  before.  She 
had  naturally  strong  affections,  of  an  outward  rather  than 
an  inward  tendency.  She  was  capable  of  much  enjoyment 


286  A   GATHERER  OF  SIMPLES. 

from  pure  living,  but  she  had  never  had  anything  of  which 
to  be  so  very  fond.  She  could  only  remember  her  father  as 
a  gloomy,  hard-working  man,  who  never  noticed  her  much. 
He  had  a  melancholy  temperament,  which  resulted  in  a 
tragical  end  when  Aurelia  was  a  mere  child.  When  she 
thought  of  him,  the  same  horror  which  she  had  when  they 
brought  him  home  from  the  river  crept  over  her  now.  They 
had  never  known  certainly  just  how  Martin  Flower  had 
come  to  die  ;  but  folks  never  spoke  of  him  to  Aurelia  and 
her  mother,  and  the  two  never  talked  of  him  together. 
They  knew  that  everybody  said  Martin  Flower  had  drowned 
himself;  they  felt  shame  and  a  Puritan  shrinking  from  the 
sin. 

Aurelia's  mother  had  been  a  hard,  silent  woman  before ; 
she  grew  more  hard  and  silent  afterwards.  She  worked 
hard,  and  taught  Aurelia  to.  Their  work  was  peculiar  ; 
they  hardly  knew  themselves  how  they  had  happened  to 
drift  into  it ;  it  had  seemed  to  creep  in  with  other  work,  till 
finally  it  usurped  it  altogether.  At  first,  after  her  husband's 
death,  Mrs.  Flower  had  tried  millinery  :  she  had  learned  the 
trade  in  her  youth.  But  she  made  no  headway  now  in  sew 
ing  rosebuds  and  dainty  bows  on  to  bonnets;  it  did  not 
suit  with  tragedy.  The  bonnets  seemed  infected  with  her 
own  mood ;  the  bows  lay  flat  with  stern  resolve,  and  the 
rosebuds  stood  up  fiercely ;  she  did  not  please  her  custom 
ers,  even  among  those  uncritical  country  folk,  and  they 
dropped  off.  She  had  always  made  excellent  root-beer,  and 
had  had  quite  a  reputation  in  the  neighborhood  for  it.  How 
it  happened  she  could  not  tell,  but  she  found  herself  selling 
it ;  then  she  made  hop  yeast,  and  sold  that.  Then  she  was 
a  woman  of  fertile  brain,  and  another  project  suggested 
itself  to  her. 


A    GATHERER  OF  SIMPLES.  28 


She  and  Aurelia  ransacked  the  woods  thereabouts  for 
medicinal' herbs,  and  disposed  of  them  to  druggists  in  a 
neighboring  town.  They  had  a  garden  also  of  some  sorts — 
the  different  mints,  thyme,  lavender,  coriander,  rosemary, 
and  others.  It  was  an  unusual  business  for  two  women  to 
engage  in,  but  it  increased,  and  they  prospered,  according 
to  their  small  ideas.  But  Mrs.  Flower  grew  more  and  more 
bitter  with  success.  What  regrets  and  longing  that  her  hus 
band  could  have  lived  and  shared  it,  and  been  spared  his 
final  agony,  she  had  in  her  heart,  nobody  but  the  poor 
woman  herself  knew  ;  she  never  spoke  of  them.  She  died 
when  Aurelia  was  twenty,  and  a  woman  far  beyond  her 
years.  She  mourned  for  her  mother,  but  although  she  never 
knew  it,  her  warmest  love  had  not  been  called  out.  It  had 
been  hardly  possible.  Mrs.  Flower  had  not  been  a  lova 
ble  mother;  she  had  rarely  spoken  to  Aurelia  but  with  cold 
censure  for  the  last  few  years.  People  whispered  that  it 
was  a  happy  release  for  the  poor  girl  when  her  mother  died; 
they  had  begun  to  think  she  was  growing  like  her  husband, 
and  perhaps  was  not  "just  right." 

Aurelia  went  on  with  the  business  with  calm  equanimity, 
and  made  even  profits  every  year.  They  were  small,  but 
more  than  enough  for  her  to  live  on,  and  she  paid  the  last 
dollar  of  the  mortgage  which  had  so  fretted  her  father,  and 
owned  the  whole  house  clear.  She  led  a  peaceful,  innocent 
life,  with  her  green  herbs  for  companions ;  she  associated 
little  with  the  people  around,  except  in  a  business  way. 
They  came  to  see  her,  but  she  rarely  entered  their  houses. 
Every  room  in  her  house  was  festooned  with  herbs ;  she 
knew  every  kind  that  grew  in  the  New  England  woods,  and 
hunted  them  out  in  their  season  and  brought  them  home  ; 
she  was  a  simple,  sweet  soul,  with  none  of  the  morbid  mel- 


288  A    GATHERER  OF  SIMPLES. 

ancholy  of  her  parents  about  her.  She  loved  her  work,  and 
the  greenwood  things  were  to  her  as  friends,  and  the  heal 
ing  qualities  of  sarsaparilla  and  thoroughwort,  and  the  sweet 
ness  of  thyme  and  lavender,  seemed  to  have  entered  into 
her  nature,  till  she  almost  could  talk  with  them  in  that  way. 
She  had  never  thought  of  being  unhappy  ;  but  now  she 
wondered  at  herself  over  this  child.  It  was  a  darling  of  a 
child  ;  as  dainty  and  winsome  a  girl  baby  as  ever  was.  Her 
poor  young  mother  had  had  a  fondness  for  romantic  names, 
which  she  had  bestowed,  as  the  only  heritage  within  her 
power,  on  all  her  children.  This  one  was  Myrtilla — Myrtie 
for  short.  The  little  thing  clung  to  Aurelia  from  the  first, 
and  Aurelia  found  that  she  had  another  way  of  loving  be 
sides  the  way  in  which  she  loved  lavender  and  thorough- 
wort.  The  comfort  she  took  with  the  child  through  the  next 
winter  was  unspeakable.  The  herbs  were  banished  from 
the  south  room,  which  was  turned  into  a  nursery,  and  a 
warm  carpet  was  put  on  the  floor,  that  the  baby  might  not 
take  cold.  She  learned  to  cook  for  the  baby — her  own 
diet  had  been  chiefly  vegetarian.  She  became  a  charming 
nursing  mother.  People  wondered.  "  It  does  beat  all  how 
handy  'Relia  is' with  that  baby,"  Mrs.  Atwood  told  Viny. 

Aurelia  took  even  more  comfort  with  the  little  thing  when 
spring  came,  and  she  could  take  her  out  with  her  ;  then  she 
bought  a  little  straw  carriage,  and  the  two  went  after  herbs 
together.  Home  they  would  come  in  the  tender  spring 
twilight,  the  baby  asleep  in  her  carriage,  with  a  great  sheaf 
of  flowers  beside  her,  and  Aurelia  with  another  over  her 
shoulder. 

She  felt  all  through  that  summer  as  if  she  were  too  happy 
to  have  it  last,  Qnce  she  said  so  to  one  of  the  neighbors. 
"  I  fee}  as  jf  it  wa'n't  right  for  me  to  be  so  perfectly  happy," 


A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES.  289 

said  she.  "  I  feel  some  days  as  if  I  was  walkin'  an'  walkin'  an' 
walkin'  through  a  garden  of  sweet-smellin'  herbs,  an'  nothin' 
else ;  an'  as  for  Myrtie,  she's  a  bundle  of  myrtle  an'  cam 
phor  out  of  King  Solomon's  garden.  I'm  so  afraid  it  can't 
last." 

Happiness  had  seemed  to  awake  in  Aurelia  a  taint  of  her 
father's  foreboding  melancholy.  But  she  apparently  had 
no  reason  for  it  until  early  fall.  Then,  returning  with  Myr 
tie  one  night  from  a  trip  to  the  woods,  she  found  an  old 
lady  seated  on  her  door-step,  grimly  waiting  for  her.  She 
was.  an  old  woman  and  tremulous,  but  still  undaunted  and 
unshaken  as  to  her  spirit.  Her  tall,  shrunken  form  was 
loaded  with  silk  and  jet.  She  stood  up  as  Aurelia  ap 
proached,  wondering,  and  her  dim  old  eyes  peered  at  her 
aggressively  through  fine  gold  spectacles,  which  lent  an  ad 
ditional  glare  to  them. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  Miss  Flower  ?"  began  the  old  lady, 
with  no  prefatory  parley. 

"Yes,"  said  Aurelia,  trembling. 

"Well,  my  name's  Mrs.  Matthew  Sears,  an'  I've  come 
for  my  grandchild  there." 

Aurelia  turned  very  white.  She  let  her  herbs  slide  to  the 
ground.  "  I — hardly  understand — I  guess,"  faltered  she. 
"  Can't  you  let  me  keep  her  ?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I  won't  have  one  of  my  grandchildren 
brought  up  by  an  old  yarb-woman — not  if  I  know  it." 

The  old  lady  sniffed.  Aurelia  stood  looking  at  her.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  fallen  down  from  heaven,  and  the  hard 
reality  of  the  earth  had  jarred  the  voice  out  of  her.  Then 
the  old  lady  made  a  step  towards  the  carriage,  and  caught 
up  Myrtie  in  her  trembling  arms.  The  child  screamed  with 
fright.  She  had  been  asleep.  She  turned  her  little  fright- 


290  A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 

ened  face  towards  Aurelia,  and  held  out  her  arms,  and  cried, 
"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  mamma  !"  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  terror. 
The  old  lady  tried  in  vain  to  hush  her.  Aurelia  found  her 
voice  then.  "You'd  better  let  me  take  her  and  give  her 
her  supper,"  she  said,  "  and  when  she  is  asleep  again  I  will 
bring  her  over  to  you." 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  lady,  doubtfully.  She  was  glad  to 
get  the  frantic  little  thing  out  of  her  arms,  though. 

Aurelia  held  her  close  and  hushed  her,  and  she  subsi 
ded  into  occasional  convulsive  sobs,  and  furtive,  frightened 
glances  at  her  grandmother. 

"I  s'pose  you  are  stopping  at  the  hotel  ?"  said  Aurelia. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  the  old  lady,  stoutly.  "  You  kin  bring 
her  over  as  soon  as  she's  asleep."  Then  she  marched  off 
with  uncertain  majesty. 

Some  women  would  have  argued  the  case  longer,  but  Au 
relia  felt  that  there  was  simply  no  use  in  it.  The  old  lady 
was  the  child's  grandmother  :  if  she  wanted  her,  she  saw  no 
way  but  to  give  her  up.  She  never  thought  of  pleading,  she 
was  so  convinced  of  the  old  lady's  determination. 

She  carried  Myrtie  into  the  house,  gave  her  her  sup 
per,  washed  her,  and  dressed  her  in  her  little  best  dress. 
Then  she  took  her  up  in  her  lap  and  tried  to  explain  to  her 
childish  mind  the  change  that  was  to  be  made  in  her  life. 
She  told  her  she  was  going  to  live  with  her  grandmother, 
and  she  must  be  a  good  little  girl,  and  love  her,  and  do  just 
as  she  told  her  to.  Myrtie  sobbed  with  unreasoning  grief, 
and  clung  to  Aurelia ;  but  she  wholly  failed  to  take  in  the 
full  meaning  of  it  all. 

She  was  still  fretful,  and  bewildered  by  her  rude  waken 
ing  from  her  nap.  Presently  she  fell  asleep  again,  and 
Aurelia  laid  her  down  while  she  got  together  her  little  ward- 


A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES.  29! 

robe.  There  was  a  hop  pillow  in  a  little  linen  case,  on 
which  Myrtle  had  always  slept ;  she  packed  that  up  with 
the  other  things. 

Then  she  rolled  up  the  little  sleeping  girl  in  a  blanket, 
laid  her  in  her  carriage,  and  went  over  to  the  hotel.  It  was 
not  much  of  a  hotel — merely  an  ordinary  two-story  house, 
where  two  or  three  spare  rooms  were  ample  accommoda 
tion  for  the  few  straggling  guests  who  came  to  this  little 
rural  place.  It  was  only  a  few  steps  from  Aurelia's  house. 
The  old  lady  had  the  chamber  of  honor — a  large  square 
room  on  the  first  floor,  opening  directly  on  to  the  piazza. 
In  spite  of  all  Aurelia's  care,  Myrtie  woke  up  and  began 
to  cry  when  she  was  carried  in.  She  had  to  go  off  and 
leave  her  screaming  piteously  after  her.  Out  on  the  piazza 
she  uttered  the  first  complaint,  almost,  of  her  life  to  the 
hostess,  Mrs.  Simonds,  who  had  followed  her  there. 

"  Don't  feel  bad,  'Relia,"  said  the  woman,  who  was  almost 
crying  herself.  "  I  know  it's  awful  hard,  when  you  was  tak 
ing  so  much  comfort.  We  all  feel  for  you." 

Aurelia  looked  straight  ahead.  She  had  the  bundle 
of  little  clothes  and  the  hop  pillow  in  her  arms ;  the  old 
lady  had  said,  in  a  way  that  would  have  been  funny  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  poor  heart  that  listened,  that  she 
didn't  want  any  yarb  pillows,  nor  any  clothes  scented  with 
yarbs  nuther 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  wicked,"  said  Aurelia,  "but  I  can't 
help  thinking  that  Providence  ought  to  provide  for  women. 
I  wish  Myrtie  was  mine." 

The  other  woman  wiped  her  eyes  at  the  hungry  way  in 
VThich  she  said  "  mine." 

"  Well,  I  can't  do  anything ;  but  I'm  sorry  for  you,  if 
that's  all.  You'd  make  enough  sight  better  mother  for 


29 2  A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 

Myrtie  than  that  cross  old  woman.  I  don't  b'lieve  she 
more'n  half  wants  her,  only  she's  sot.  She  doesn't  care 
anything  about  having  the  other  children  ;  she's  going  to 
leave  them  with  Mis'  Loomis ;  but  she  says  her  grandchil 
dren  ain't  going  to  be  living  with  strangers,  an'  she  ought 
to  hev  been  consulted.  After  all  you've  done  for  the  child, 
to  treat  you  as  she  has  to-night,  she's  the  most  ungrateful — 
I  know  one  thing;  I'd  charge  her  for  Myrtie's  board — a 
good  price,  too." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  anything  of  that  sort,"  said  poor  Au- 
relia,  dejectedly,  listening  to  her  darling's  sobs.  "You  go 
in  an'  try  to  hush  her,  Mis'  Simonds.  Oh !" 

"  So  I  will.  Her  grandmother  can't  do  anything  with 
her,  poor  little  thing!  I've  got  some  peppermints.  I  do 
believe  she's  spankin'  her— the— 

Aurelia  did  not  run  in  with  Mrs.  Simonds ;  she  listened 
outside  till  the  pitiful  cries  hushed  a  little ;  then  she  went 
desolately  home. 

She  sat  down  in  the  kitchen,  with  the  little  clothes  in  her 
lap.  She  did  not  think  of  going  to  bed ;  she  did  not  cry  nor 
moan  to  herself;  she  just  sat  there  still.  It  was  not  very 
late  when  she  came  home — between  eight  and  nine.  In 
about  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  she  heard  a  sound  outside  that 
made  her  heart  leap — a  little  voice  crying  pitifully,  and  say 
ing,  between  the  sobs,  "Mamma!  mamma!" 

Aurelia  made  one  spring  to  the  door.  There  was  the 
tiny  creature  in  her  little  nightgown,  shaking  all  over  with 
cold  and  sobs. 

Aurelia  caught  her  up,  and  all  her  calm  was  over.  "Oh, 
you  darling  !  you  darling  !  you  darling  !"  she  cried,  covering 
her  little  cold  body  all  over  with  kisses.  "  You  sha'n't  leave 
me — you  sha'n't !  you  sha'n't !  Little  sweetheart — all  I've 


A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 


293 


got  in  the  world.  I  guess  they  sha'n't  take  you  away  when 
you  don't  want  to  go.  Did  you  cry,  and  mamma  go  off 
and  leave  you  ?  Did  they  whip  you  ?  They  never  shall 
again  —  never  !  never  !  There,  there,  blessed,  don't  cry  ; 
mamma'll  get  you  all  warm,  and  you  shall  go  to  sleep  on 
your  own  little  pillow.  Oh,  you  darling  !  darling  !  darling !" 

Aurelia  busied  herself  about  the  child,  rubbing  the  little 
numb  limbs,  and  getting  some  milk  heated.  She  never 
asked  how  she  came  to  get  away  ;  she  never  thought  of  any 
thing  except  that  she  had  her.  She  stopped  every  other 
minute  to  kiss  her  and  croon  to  her;  she  laughed  and 
cried.  Now  she  gave  way  to  her  feelings  ;  she  was  almost 
beside  herself.  She  had  the  child  all  warm  and  fed  and 
comforted  by  the  kitchen  fire  when  she  heard  steps  outside, 
and  she  knew  at  once  what  was  coming,  and  a  fierce  resolve 
sprang  up  in  her  heart:  they  should  not  have  that  child 
again  to-night.  She  cast  a  hurried  glance  around  ;  there  was 
hardly  a  second's  time.  In  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  was 
a  great  heap  of  herbs  which  she  had  taken  clown  from  the 
walls  where  they  had  been  drying ;  the  next  day  she  had 
intended  to  pack  them  and  send  them  off.  She  caught  up 
Myrtie  and  covered  her  with  them.  "Lie  still,  darling!" 
she  whispered.  "  Don't  make  a  bit  of  noise,  or  your  grand 
mother  will  get  you  again."  Myrtie  crouched  under  them, 
trembling. 

Then  the  door  opened  ;  Mr.  Simonds  stood  there  with  a 
lantern.  "  That  little  girl's  run  away,"  he  began — "  slipped 
out  while  the  old  lady  was  out  of  the  room  a  minute.  Beats 
all  how  such  a  little  thing  knew  enough.  She's  here,  ain't 
she  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Aurelia,  "  she  ain't." 

"You  don't  mean  it?" 


294  A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES. 

"  Yes." 

"  Ain't  you  seen  her,  though  ?" 

"No." 

Mr.  Simonds,  who  was  fat  and  placid,  began  to  look 
grave.  "  Then,  all  there  is  about  it,  we've  got  to  have  a 
hunt,"  said  he.  " 'Twon't  do  to  have  that  little  tot  out  in 
her  nightgown  long.  We  hadn't  a  thought  but  that  she  was 
here.  Must  have  lost  her  way." 

Aurelia  watched  him  stride  down  the  yard.  Then  she 
ran  after  him.  "  Mr.  Simonds  !"  He  turned.  "  I  told  you 
a  lie.  Myrtie's  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  under  a  heap 
of  herbs." 

"  Why,  what  on  earth — " 

"  I  wanted  to  keep  her  so  to-night."  Aurelia  burst  right 
out  in  loud  sobs. 

"  There,  'Relia  !  It's  a  confounded  shame.  You  shall 
keep  her.  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  the  old  lady  some- 
'how.  I  reckon,  as  long  as  the  child's  safe,  she'll  be  glad 
to  get  rid  of  her  to-night.  She  wouldn't  have  slept  much. 
'Go  right  into  the  house,  'Relia,  and  don't  worry." 

Aurelia  obeyed.  She  hung  over  the  little  creature, 
asleep  in  her  crib,  all  night.  She  watched  her  every 
breath.  She  never  thought  of  sleeping  herself — her  last 
night  with  Myrtie.  The  seconds  were  so  many  grains  of 
gold-dust.  Her  heart  failed  her  when  day  broke.  She 
washed  and  dressed  Myrtie  at  the  usual  time,  and  gave  her 
her  breakfast.  Then  she  sat  down  with  her  and  waited. 
The  child's  sorrow  was  soon  forgotten,  and  she  played 
about  as  usual.  Aurelia  watched  her  despairingly.  She 
began  to  wonder  at  length  why  they  did  not  come  for  her. 
It  grew  later  and  later.  She  would  not  carry  her  back  her 
self,  she  was  resolved  on  that. 


A    GATHERER   OF  SIMPLES.  295 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  any  one  came ;  then  it  was 
Mrs.  Simonds.  She  had  a  strange  look  on  her  face. 

"Relia,"  she  said,  standing  in  the  door  and  looking  at 
her  and  Myrtie,  "you  ain't  heard  what  has  happened  to 
our  house  this  mornin',  hev  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Aurelia,  awed. 

"  Old  Mis'  Sears  is  dead.  Had  her  third  shock :  she's 
had  two  in  the  last  three  years.  She  was  took  soon  after 
Mr.  Simonds  got  home.  We  got  a  doctor  right  off,  but  she 
died  'bout  an  hour  ago." 

"  Oh,"  said  Aurelia,  "  I've  been  a  wicked  woman." 

"No  you  ain't,  Aurelia;  don't  you  go  to  feeling  so. 
There's  no  call  for  the  living  to  be  unjust  to  themselves  be 
cause  folks  are  dead.  You  did  the  best  you  could.  An' 
now  you're  glad  you  can  keep  the  child ;  you  can't  help  it. 
I  thought  of  it  myself  the  first  thing." 

"  Oh,  I  was  such  a  wicked  woman  to  think  of  it  myself," 
said  Aurelia.  "  If  I  could  only  have  done  something  for 
the  poor  eld  soul !  Why  didn't  you  call  me?" 

"I  told  Mr.  Simonds  I  wouldn't;  you'd  had  enough." 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  which  Aurelia  found  to  do 
— a  simple  and  touching  thing,  though  it  probably  meant 
more  to  her  than  to  most  of  those  who  knew  of  it. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral  the  poor  old  woman's  grave 
was  found  lined  with  fragrant  herbs  from  Aurelia's  garden 
— thyme  and  lavender  and  rosemary.  She. had  cried  when 
she  picked  them,  because  she  could  not  help  being  glad, 
and  they  were  all  she  could  give  for  atonement. 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

ESTHER  GAY'S  house  was  little  and  square,  and  mounted 
on  posts  like  stilts.  A  stair  led  up  to  the  door  on  the 
left  side.  Morning-glories  climbed  up  the  stair -railing, 
\  the  front  of  the  house  and  the  other  side  were  covered 
with  them,  all  the  windows  but  one  were  curtained  with 
the  matted  green  vines.  Esther  sat  at  the  uncurtained 
window,  and  knitted.  She  perked  her  thin,  pale  nose  up 
in  the  air,  her  pointed  chin  tilted  upward  too;  she  held  her 
knitting  high,  and  the  needles  clicked  loud,  and  shone  in 
the  sun.  The  bell  was  ringing  for  church,  and  a  good 
many  people  were  passing.  They  could  look  in  on  her,  and 
see  very  plainly  what  she  was  doing.  Every  time  a  group 
went  by  she  pursed  her  thin  old  lips  tighter,  and  pointed 
up  her  nose  higher,  and  knitted  more  fiercely.  Her  skinny 
shoulders  jerked.  She  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  every  one 
who  passed,  but  no  one  caught  her  looking.  She  knew 
them  all.  This  was  a  little  village.  By  and  by  the  bell 
had  stopped  tolling,  and  even  the  late  church-goers  had 
creaked  briskly  out  of  sight.  The  street,  which  was  narrow 
here,  was  still  and  vacant. 

Presently  a  woman  appeared  in  a  little  flower-garden  in 
front  of  the  opposite  house.  She  was  picking  a  nosegay. 
She  was  little  and  spare,  and  she  bent  over  the  flowers 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  297 

with  a  stiffness  as  of  stiff  wires.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would 
take  mechanical  force  to  spring  her  up  again. 

Esther  watched  her.  "  It's  dretful  hard  work  for  her  to 
git  around/'  she  muttered  to  herself. 

Finally,  she  laid  down  her  knitting  and  called  across  to 
her.  "  Laviny  !"  said  she. 

The  woman  came  out  to  the  gate  with  some  marigolds 
and  candytuft  in  her  hand.  Her  dim  blue  eyes  blinked  in 
the  light.  She  looked  over  and  smiled  with  a  sort  of  help 
less  inquiry. 

"  Come  over  here  a  minute." 

"  I— guess  I— can't." 

Esther  was  very  deaf.  She  could  not  hear  a  word,  but 
she  saw  the  deprecating  shake  of  the  head,  and  she  knew 
well  enough. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why  you  can't,  a  minute.  You  kin 
hear  your  mother  the  minute  she  speaks." 

The  woman  glanced  back  at  the  house,  then  she  looked 
over  at  Esther.  Her  streaked  light  hair  hung  in  half-curls 
over  her  wide  crocheted  collar,  she  had  a  little,  narrow, 
wrinkled  face,  but  her  cheeks  were  as  red  as  roses. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  not.  It's  Sunday,  you  know/'  said 
she.  Her  soft,  timid  voice  could  by  no  possibility  reach 
those  deaf  ears  across  the  way. 

"  What  ?" 

"  I— guess  I'd  better  not— as  long  as  it's  Sunday:' 

Esther's  strained  attention  caught  the  last  word,  and 
guessed  at  the  rest  from  a  knowledge  of  the  speaker. 

u  Stuff,"  said  she,  with  a  sniff  through  her  delicate,  up- 
tilted  nostrils.  "  I'd  like  to  know  how  much  worse  'tis  for 
you  to  step  over  here  a  minute,  an'  tell  me  how  she  is  when 
I  can't  hear  across  the  road,  than  to  stop  an'  talk  comin' 


298  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

out  o'  meetin';  you'd  do  that  quick  enough.  You're  strain- 
in',  Laviny  Dodge." 

Lavinia,  as  if  overwhelmed  by  the  argument,  cast  one 
anxious  glance  back  at  the  house,  and  came  through  the 
gate. 

Just  then  a  feeble,  tremulous  voice,  with  a  wonderful  qual 
ity  of  fine  sharpness  in  it,  broke  forth  behind  her, 

"  Laviny,  Laviny,  where  be  you  goin' ?   Come  back  here." 

Lavinia,  wheeling  with  such  precipitate  vigor  that  it  sug 
gested  a  creak,  went  up  the  path. 

"  I  wa'n't  goin'  anywhere,  mother,"  she  called  out. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"  You  can't  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes.  I  seed  you 
a-goin'  out  the  gate." 

Lavinia's  mother  was  over  ninety  and  bedridden.  That 
infinitesimal  face  which  had  passed  through  the  stages  of 
beauty,  commonplaceness,  and  hideousness,  and  now  ar 
rived  at  that  of  the  fine  grotesqueness  which  has,  as  well  as 
beauty,  a  certain  charm  of  its  own,  peered  out  from  its  great 
feather  pillows.  The  skin  on  the  pinched  face  was  of  a 
dark-yellow  color,  the  eyes  were  like  black  points,  the  tiny, 
sunken  mouth  had  a  sardonic  pucker. 

"  Esther  jest  wanted  me  to  come  over  there  a  minute. 
She  wanted  to  ask  after  you,"  said  Lavinia,  standing  beside 
the  bed,  holding  her  flowers. 

"Hey?" 

"  She/6tf  wanted  me  to  come  over  an'  tell  her  how  you 
was." 

"  How  I  was  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  I  was  miser'ble  ?" 

"  I  didn't  go,  mother." 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  299 

"  I  seed  you  a-goin'  out  the  gate." 

"  I  came  back.  She  couldn't  hear  'thout  I  went  way 
over." 

"  Hey  ?" 

"  It's  all  right,  mother,"  screamed  Lavinia.  Then  she 
went  about  putting  the  flowers  in  water. 

The  old  woman's  little  eyes  followed  her,  with  a  sharp 
light  like  steel. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  hev  you  goin'  over  to  Esther  Gay's,  Sab 
bath  day,"  she  went  on,  her  thin  voice  rasping  out  from 
her  pillows  like  a  file.  "  She  ain't  no  kind  of  a  girl.  Wa'n't 
she  knittin'?" 

41  Yes." 

"  Hey  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  was  knittin',  mother." 

"Wa'n't  knittin'?" 

"Y-e-s,  she  was." 

"  I  knowed  it.  Stayin'  home  from  meetin'  an'  knittin'. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  hev  you  over  thar,  Laviny." 

Esther  Gay,  over  in  her  window,  held  her  knitting  up 
higher,  and  knitted  with  fury.  "  H'm,  the  old  lady  called 
her  back,"  said  she.  "  If  they  want  to  show  out  they  kin, 
I'm  goin'  to  do  what  I  think's  right." 

The  morning-glories  on  the  house  were  beautiful  this 
morning,  the  purple  and  white  and  rosy  ones  stood  out 
with  a  soft  crispness.  Esther  Gay's  house  was  not  so  pretty 
in  winter — there  was  no  paint  on  it,  and  some  crooked  out- 
lines  showed.  It  was  a  poor  little  structure,  but  Esther 
owned  it  free  of  encumbrances.  She  had  also  a  pension 
of  ninety-six  dollars  which  served  her  for  support.  She 
considered  herself  well  to  do.  There  was  not  enough  for 
anything  besides  necessaries,  but  Esther  was  one  who  had 


300  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

always  looked  upon  necessaries  as  luxuries.  Her  sharp 
eyes  saw  the  farthest  worth  of  things.  When  she  bought 
a  half-cord  of  pine  wood  with  an  allotment  of  her  pension- 
money,  she  saw  in  a  vision  ail  the  warmth  and  utility  which 
could  ever  come  from  it.  When  it  was  heaped  up  in  the 
space  under  the  house  which  she  used  for  a  wood-shed,  she 
used  to  go  and  look  at  it. 

"Esther  Gay  does  think  so  much  of  her  own  things," 
people  said. 

That  little  house,  which,  with  its  precipitous  stair  and 
festoons  of  morning-glories,  had  something  of  a  foreign  pict- 
uresqueness,  looked  to  her  like  a  real  palace.  She  paid  a 
higher  tax  upon  it  than  she  should  have  done.  A  lesser 
one  had  been  levied,  and  regarded  by  her  as  an  insult. 
"  My  house  is  worth  more'n  that,"  she  had  told  the  assessor 
with  an  indignant  bridle.  She  paid  the  increased  tax  with 
cheerful  pride,  and  frequently  spoke  of  it.  To-day  she  often 
glanced  from  her  knitting  around  the  room.  There  was  a 
/certain  beauty  in  it,  although  it  was  hardly  the  one  which 
I  she  recognized.  It  was  full  of  a  lovely,  wavering,  gold-green 
ft  light,  and  there  was  a  fine  order  and  cleanness  which  gave 
\  sense  of  peace.  But  Esther  saw  mainly  her  striped  rag- 
carpet,  her  formally  set  chairs,  her  lounge  covered  with 
Brussels,  and  her  shining  cooking-stove. 

Still  she  looked  at  nothing  with  the  delight  with  which 
she  surveyed  her  granddaughter  Hatty,  when  she  returned 
from  church. 

"  Well,  you've  got  home,  ain't  you  ?"  she  said,  when  the 
young,  slim  girl,  with  her  pale,  sharp  face,  which  was  like 
her  grandmother's,  stood  before  her.  Hatty  in  her  meet 
ing-gown  of  light-brown  delaine,  and  her  white  meeting-hat 
trimmed  with  light-brown  ribbons  and  blue  flowers  was  not 
pretty,  but  the  old  woman  admired  her. 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  301 

"Yes,"  said  Hatty.  Then  she  went  into  her  little  bed 
room  to  take  off  her  things.  There  was  a  slow  shyness 
about  her.  She  never  talked  much,  even  to  her  grand 
mother. 

"  You  kin  git  you  somethin'  to  eat,  if  you  want  it,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "  I  don't  want  to  stop  myself  till  I  git 
this  heel  done.  Was  Henry  to  meetin'  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  His  father  an'  mother?" 

"  Yes." 

Henry  was  the  young  man  who  had  been  paying  atten 
tion  to  Hatty.  Her  grandmother  was  proud  and  pleased ; 
she  liked  him. 

Hatty  generally  went  to  church  Sunday  evenings,  and 
the  young  man  escorted  her  home,  and  came  in  and  made 
a  call.  To-night  the  girl  did  not  go  to  church  as  usual. 
Esther  was  astonished. 

"Why,  ain't  you  goin'  to  meetin'?"  said  she. 

"  No  ;  I  guess  not." 

"  Why  ?  why  not  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  wouldn't." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  sharply.  The  tea-things 
were  cleared  away,  and  she  was  at  her  knitting  again,  a 
little  lamp  at  her  elbow. 

Presently  Hatty  went  out,  and  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  in  the  twilight.  She  sat  there  by  herself  until  meet 
ing  was  over,  and  the  people  had  been  straggling  by  for 
some  time.  Then  she  went  down-stairs,  and  joined  a  young 
man  who  passed  at  the  foot  of  them.  She  was  gone  half 
an  hour. 

"  Where  hev  you  been  ?"  asked  her  grandmother,  when 
she  returned. 
20 


302  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

"  I  went  out  a  little  way." 

"Who  with?" 

"  Henry." 

"Why  didn't  he  come  in?" 

"  He  thought  he  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  see  why." 

Hatty  said  nothing.  She  lit  her  candle  to  go  to  bed. 
Her  little  thin  face  was  imperturbable. 
j  She  worked  in  a  shop,  and  earned  a  little  money.  Her 
grandmother  would  not  touch  a  dollar  of  it ;  what  she  did 
not  need  to  spend  for  herself,  she  made  her  save.  Lately 
the  old  woman  had  been  considering  the  advisability  of 
her  taking  a  sum  from  the  saving's  bank  to  buy  a  silk  dress. 
She  thought  she  might  need  it  soon. 

Monday,  she  opened  upon  the  subject.  "  Hatty,"  said 
she,  "  I've  been  thinkin' — don't  you  believe  it  would  be  a 
good  plan  for  you  to  take  a  little  of  your  money  out  of  the 
bank  an'  buy  you  a  nice  dress?" 

Hatty  never  answered  quickly.  She  looked  at  her  grand 
mother,  then  she  kept  on  with  her  sewing.  It  was  after 
supper,  her  shop-work  was  done,  and  she  was  sitting  at  the 
table  with  her  needle.  She  seemed  to  be  considering  her 
grandmother's  remark. 

The  old  woman  waited  a  moment,  then  she  proceeded  : 
"I've  been  thinkin'  —  you  ain't  never  had  any  real  nice 
dress,  you  know  —  that  it  would  be  a  real  good  plan  for 
you  to  take  some  money,  now  you've  got  it,  an'  buy  you 
a  silk  one.  You  ain't  never  had  one,  an'  you're  old 
enough  to." 

Still  Hatty  sewed,  and  said  nothing. 

"  You  might  want  to  go  somewhar,"  continued  Esther, 
"  an' — well,  of  course,  if  anythin'  should  happen,  if  Henry — 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  303 

It's  jest  as  well  not  to  hev'  to  do  everythin'  all  to  once,  an' 
it's  consider'ble  work  to  make  a  silk  dress —  Why  don't 
you  say  somethin'  ?" 

"  I  clon't  want  any  silk  dress." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why  not?" 

Hatty  made  no  reply. 

"  Look  here,  Hatty,  you  an'  Henry  Little  ain't  had  no 
trouble,  hev'  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  we  have." 

"What?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  we  have." 

"  Hatty  Gay,  I  know  there's  somethin'  the  matter.  Now 
you  jest  tell  me  what  'tis.  Ain't  he  comin'  here  no  more  ?" 

Suddenly  the  girl  curved  her  arm  around  on  the  table, 
and  laid  her  face  down  on  it.  She  would  not  speak  another 
word.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  crying,  but  she  sat  there, 
hiding  her  little  plain,  uncommunicative  face. 

"  Hatty  Gay,  ain't  he  comin'  ?     Why  ain't  he  comin'  ?" 

Hatty  would  give  the  old  woman  no  information.  AH 
she  got  was  that  obtained  from  ensuing  events.  Henry 
Little  did  not  come ;  she  ascertained  that.  The  weeks 
went  on,  and  he  had  never  once  climbed  those  vine- 
wreathed  stairs  to  see  Hatty. 

Esther  fretted  and  questioned.  One  clay,  in  the  midst 
of  her  nervous  conjectures,  she  struck  the  chord  in  Hatty 
which  vibrated  with  information. 

"  I  hope  you  want  too  forrard  with  Henry,  Hatty,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "You  didn't  act  too  anxious  arter  him, 
did  you?  That's  apt  to  turn  fellows." 

Then  Hatty  spoke.  Some  pink  spots  flared  out  on  her 
quiet,  pale  cheeks. 

"Grandma,"  said  she,  "  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  want  to  know, 


304  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

what  the  trouble  is.  I  wasn't  goin'  to,  because  I  didn't 
want  to  make  you  feel  bad ;  but,  if  you're  goin'  to  throw 
out  such  things  as  that  to  me,  I  don't  care.  Henry's 
mother  don't  like  you,  there !" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Henry's  mother  don't  like  you." 

"Don't  like  me?" 

"No." 

"Why,  what  hev  I  done?  I  don't  see  what  you  mean, 
Hatty  Gay." 

"  Grace  Porter  told  me.  Mrs.  Little  told  her  mother. 
Then  I  asked  him,  an'  he  owned  up  it  was  so." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  she  said." 

Hatty  went  on,  pitilessly,  "  She  told  Grace's  mother  she 
didn't  want  her  son  to  marry  into  the  Gay  tribe  anyhow. 
She  didn't  think  much  of  'em.  She  said  any  girl  whose 
folks  didn't  keep  Sunday,  an'  stayed  away  from  meetin'  an' 
worked,  wouldn't,  amount  to  much." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  said  it." 

"  She  did.  Henry  said  his  mother  took  on  so  he  was 
afraid  she'd  die,  if  he  didn't  give  it  up." 

Esther  sat  up  straight.  She  seemed  to  bristle  out  sud 
denly  with  points,  from  her  knitting-needles  to  her  sharp 
elbows  and  thin  chin  and  nose.  "Well,  he  kin  give  it  up 
then,  if  he  wants  to,  for  all  me.  I  ain't  goin'  to  give  up 
my  principles  fir  him,  nor  any  of  his  folks,  an'  they'll  find 
it  out.  You  kin  git  somebody  else  jest  as  good  as  he  is.' 

"  I  don't  want  anybody  else." 

"  H'm,  you  needn't  have  'em  then,  ef  you  ain't  got  no 
more  sperit.  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  want  your  grand 
mother  to  give  up  doin'  what's  right  yourself,  Hatty  Gay," 

"  I  ain't  sure  it  is  right." 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  305 

"  Ain't  sure  it's  right.  Then  I  s'pose  you  think  it  would 
be  better  for  an  old  woman  that's  stone  deaf,  an'  can't  hear 
a  word  of  the  preachin',  to  go  to  meetin'  an'  set  there,  doin' 
nothin'  two  hours,  instead  of  stayin'  to  home  an'  knittin',  to  ' 
airn  a  leetle  money  to  give  to  the  Lord.  All  I've  got  to 
say  is,  you  kin  think  so,  then.  I'm  a-goin'  to  do  what's 
right,  no  matter  what  happens." 

Hatty  said  nothing  more.  She  took  up  her  sewing  again  ; 
her  grandmother  kept  glancing  at  her.  Finally  she  said, 
in  a  mollifying  voice,  "  Why  don't  you  go  an'  git  you  a 
leetle  piece  of  that  cake  in  the  cupboard  ;  you  didn't  eat  no 
supper  hardly." 

"  I  don't  want  any." 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  make  yourself  sick,  an'  go  without 
eatin,  you  kin." 

Hatty  did  go  without  eating  much  through  the  following 
weeks.  She  laid  awake  nights,  too,  staring  pitifully  into 
the  darkness,  but  she  did  not  make  herself  ill.  There  was 
an  unflinching  strength  in  that  little,  meagre  body,  which 
lay  even  back  of  her  own  will.  It  would  take  long  for  her 
lack  of  spirit  to  break  her  down  entirely;  but  her  grand 
mother  did  not  know  that.  She  watched  her  and  worried. 
Still  she  had  not  the  least  idea  of  giving  in.  She  knitted 
more  zealously  than  ever  Sundays ;  indeed,  there  was,  to 
her  possibly  distorted  perceptions,  a  religious  zeal  in  it. 

She  knitted  on  week-days  too.  She  reeled  off  a  good 
many  pairs  of  those  reliable  blue-yarn  stockings,  and  sold 
them  to  a  dealer  in  the  city.  She  gave  away  every  cent 
which  she  earned,  and  carefully  concealed  the  direction  of 
her  giving.  Even  Hatty  did  not  know  of  it. 

Six  weeks  after  Hatty's  lover  left,  the  old  woman  across 
the  way  died.  After  the  funeral,  when  measures  were  taken 


3o6  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

for  the  settlement  of  the  estate,  it  was  discovered  that  all 
the  little  property  was  gone,  eaten  up  by  a  mortgage  and 
the  interest.  The  two  old  women  had  lived  upon  the  small 
house  and  the  few  acres  of  land  for  the  last  ten  years,  ever 
since  Lavinia's  father  had  died.  He  had  grubbed  away  in 
a  boot-shop,  and  earned  enough  for  their  frugal  support  as 
long  as  he  lived.  Lavinia  had  never  been  able  to  work  for 
her  own  living ;  she  was  not  now.  "  Laviny  Dodge  will 
have  to  go  to  the  poorhouse,"  everybody  said. 

One  noon  Hatty  spoke  of  it  to  her  grandmother.  She 
rarely  spoke  of  anything  now,  but  this  was  uncommon 
news. 

"They  say  Laviny  Dodge  has  got  to  go  to  the  poor- 
house,"  said  she. 

"What?" 

"  They  say  Laviny  Dodge  has  got  to  go  to  the  poor- 
house." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  on't." 

"  They  say  it's  so." 

That  afternoon  Esther  went  over  to  ascertain  the  truth  of 
the  report  for  herself.  She  found  Lavinia  sitting  alone  in 
the  kitchen  crying.  Esther  went  right  in,  and  stood  look 
ing  at  her. 

"It's  so,  ain't  it?"  said  she. 

Lavinia  started.  There  was  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
red,  distorted  face ;  then  she  hid  it  again,  and  went  on 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  and  sobbing.  She  had  seated 
herself  in  the  rocking-chair  to  weep.  "  Yes,"  she  wailed, 
"it's  so!  I've  got  to  go.  Mr.  Barnes  come  in,  an'  said  I 
had  this  mornin' ;  there  ain't  no  other  way.  I've — got — to 
go.  Oh,  what  would  mother  have  said!" 

Esther  stood  still,  looking.  "  A  place  gits  run  out  afore 
you  know  it,"  she  remarked. 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  307 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  s'pose  it  was  quite  so  near  gone.  I  thought 
mebbe  I  could  stay — as  long  as  I  lived." 

"You'd  oughter  hev  kept  account." 

"I  s'pose  I  hed,  but  I  never  knew  much  'bout  money- 
matters,  an'  poor  mother,  she  was  too  old.  Father  was 
real  sharp,  ef  he'd  lived.  Oh,  I've  got  to  go !  I  never 
thought  it  would  come  to  this !" 

"  I  don't  think  you're  fit  to  do  any  work." 

"  No  ;  they  say  I  ain't.  My  rheumatism  has  been  worse 
lately.  It's  been  hard  work  for  me  to  crawl  round  an1  wait 
on  mother.  I've  got  to  go.  Oh,  Esther,  it's  awful  to  think 
I  can't  die  in  my  own  home.  Now  I've  got — to  die  in  the 
poorhouse  !  I've — got — to  die  in  the  poorhouse  !" 

"  I've  got  to  go  now,"  said  Esther. 

"  Don't  go.  You  ain't  but  jest  come.  I  ain't  got  a  soul 
to  speak  to." 

"  I'll  come  in  agin  arter  supper,"  said  Esther,  and  went 
out  resolutely,  with  Lavinia  wailing  after  her  to  come  back. 
At  home,  she  sat  down  and  deliberated.  She  had  a  long 
talk  with  Hatty  when  she  returned.  "  I  don't  care,"  was 
all  she  could  get  out  of  the  girl,  who  was  more  silent  than 
usual.  She  ate  very  little  supper. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  Esther  went  over  to  the  Dodge 
house.  The  windows  were  all  dark.  "Land,  I  believe 
she's  gone  to  bed,"  said  the  old  woman,  fumbling  along 
through  the  yard.  The  door  was  fast,  so  she  knocked. 
"Laviny,  Laviny,  be  you  gone  to  bed  ?  Laviny  Dodge  !" 

"Who  is  it?"  said  a  quavering  voice  on  the  other  side, 
presently. 

"  It's  me.     You  gone  to  bed  ?" 

"  It's  you,  Mis'  Gay,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Yes.     Let  me  in.     I  want  to  see  you  a  minute." 


3o8  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

Then  Lavinia  opened  the  door  and  stood  there,  her  old 
knees  knocking  together  with  cold  and  nervousness.  She 
had  got  out  of  bed  and  put  a  plaid  shawl  over  her  shoul 
ders  when  she  heard  Esther. 

"I  want  to  come  in  jest  a  minute,"  said  Esther.  "I 
hadn't  any  idee  you'd  be  gone  to  bed." 

The  fire  had  gone  out,  and  it  was  chilly  in  the  kitchen, 
where  the  two  women  sat  down. 

"You'll  ketch  your  death  of  cold  in  your  night-gown," 
said  Esther.  "  You'd  better  git  somethin'  more  to  put  over 
you." 

"  I  don't  keer  if  I  do  ketch  cold,"  said  Lavinia,  with  an 
air  of  feeble  recklessness,  which  sat  oddly  upon  her. 

"Laviny  Dodge,  don't  talk  so." 

"  I  don't  keer.  I'd  ruther  ketch  my  death  of  cold  than 
not ;  then  I  shouldn't  have  to  die  in  the  poorhouse."  The 
old  head,  in  its  little  cotton  night-cap,  cocked  itself  side 
ways,  with  pitiful  bravado. 

Esther  rose,  went  into  the  bedroom,  got  a  quilt  and  put 
it  over  Lavinia's  knees.  " There,"  said  she,  "you  hev  that 
over  you.  There  ain't  no  sense  in  your  talkin'  that  way. 
You're  jest  a-flyin'  in  the  face  of  Providence,  an'  Providence 
don't  mind  the  little  flappin'  you  kin  make,  any  more  than 
a  barn  does  a  swaller." 

"  I  can't  help  it." 

"What?" 

"  I — can't  help  it." 

"  Yes,  you  kin  help  it,  too.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I've 
come  over  here  for.  I've  been  thinkin'  on't  all  the  arter- 
noon,  an'  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I  want  you  to  come 
over  and  live  with  me." 

Lavinia  sat  feebly  staring  at  her.     "  Live  with  you  !" 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  309 

"  Yes.  I've  got  my  house  an'  my  pension,  an'  I  pick  up 
some  with  my  knittin'.  Two  won't  cost  much  more'n  one. 
I  reckon  we  kin  git  along  well  enough." 

Lavinia  said  nothing,  she  still  sat  staring.  She  looked 
scared. 

Esther  began  to  feel  hurt.  "  Mebbe  you  don't  want  to 
come,"  she  said,  stiffly,  at  last. 

Lavinia  shivered.  "  There's  jest — one  thing — "  she  com 
menced. 

"  What  ?" 

"  There's  jest  one  thing — " 

"  What's  that  ?" 

"I  dunno  what —  Mother —  You're  real  good;  but — 
Oh,  I  don't  see  how  I  kin  come,  Esther !" 

"  Why  not  ?  If  there's  any  reason  why  you  don't  want 
to  live  with  me,  I  want  to  know  what  'tis." 

Lavinia  was  crying.  "I  can't  tell  you,"  she  sobbed; 
"but,  mother —  If— you  didn't  work  Sundays.  Oh!" 

"Then  you  mean  to  say  you'd  ruther  go  to  the  poor- 
house  than  come  to  live  with  me,  Lavinia  Dodge?" 

"I— can't  help  it." 

"Then,  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  you  kin  go." 

Esther  went  home,  and  said  no  more.  In  a  few  days 
she,  peering  around  her  curtain,  saw  poor  Lavinia  Dodge, 
a  little,  trembling,  shivering  figure,  hoisted  into  the  poor- 
house  covered  wagon,  and  driven  off.  After  the  wagon 
was  out  of  sight,  she  sat  down  and  cried. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon.  Hatty  had  just  gone  to 
her  work,  having  scarcely  tasted  her  dinner.  Her  grand 
mother  had  worked  hard  to  get  an  extra  one  to-day,  too, 
but  she  had  no  heart  to  eat.  Her  mournful  silence,  which 
seemed  almost  obstinate,  made  the  old  woman  at  once 


310  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

angry  and  wretched.  Now  she  wept  over  Lavinia  Dodge 
and  Hatty,  and  the  two  causes  combined  made  bitter 
tears. 

"  I  wish  to  the  land  "  she  cried  out  loud  once — "  I  wish 
to  the  land  I  could  find  some  excuse ;  but  I  ain't  goin'  to 
give  up  what  I  th ink's  right." 

Esther  Gay  had  never  been  so  miserable  in  her  life  as 
she  was  for  the  three  months  after  Lavinia  Dodge  left  her 
home.  She  thought  of  her,  she  watched  Hatty,  and  she 
knitted.  Hatty  was  at  last  beginning  to  show  the  effects 
of  her  long  worry.  She  looked  badly,  and  the  neighbors 
began  speaking  about  it  to  her  grandmother.  The  old 
woman  seemed  to  resent  it  when  they  did.  At  times  she 
scolded  the  girl,  at  times  she  tried  to  pet  her,  and  she 
knitted  constantly,  week-clays  and  Sundays. 

Lavinia  had  been  in  the  almshouse  three  months,  when 
one  of  the  neighbors  came  in  one  day  and  told  Esther  that 
she  was  confined  to  her  bed.  Her  rheumatism  was  worse, 
and  she  was  helpless.  Esther  dropped  her  knitting,  and 
stared  radiantly  at  the  neighbor.  "You  said  she  was  an 
awful  sight  of  trouble,  didn't  you  ?"  said  she. 

"  Yes  ;  Mis'  Marvin  said  it  was  worse  than  takin'  care  of 
a  baby." 

"I  should  think  it  would  take  about  all  of  anybody's 
time." 

"I  should.  Why,  Esther  Gay,  you  look  real  tickled 
'cause  she's  sick  !"  cried  the  woman,  bluntly. 

Esther  colored.     "You  talk  pretty,"  said  she. 

"Well,  I  don't  care ;  you  looked  so.  I  don't  s'pose  you 
was,"  said  the  other,  apologetically. 

That  afternoon  Esther  Gay  made  two  visits  :  one  at  the 
selectmen's  room,  in  the  town-hall,  the  other  at  Henry  Lit- 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  311 

tie's.  One  of  her  errands  at  the  selectmen's  room  was  con 
cerning  the  reduction  of  her  taxes. 

"  I'm  a-payin'  too  much  on  that  leetle  house,"  said  she, 
standing  up,  alert  and  defiant.  "  It  ain't  wuth  it."  There 
was  some  dickering,  but  she  gained  her  point.  Poor  Esther 
Gay  would  never  make  again  her  foolish  little  boast  about 
her  large  tax.  More  than  all  her  patient,  toilsome  knit 
ting  was  the  sacrifice  of  this  bit  of  harmless  vanity. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  Littles',  Henry  was  out  in  the 
yard.  He  was  very  young;  his  innocent,  awkward  face 
flushed  when  he  saw  Esther  coming  up  the  path. 

"  Good  arternoon,"  said  she.     Henry  jerked  his  head. 

"  Your  mother  to  home  ?" 

"  Ye— s." 

Esther  advanced  and  knocked,  while  Henry  stood  staring. 

Presently  Mrs.  Little  answered  the  knock.  She  was  a 
large  woman.  The  astonished  young  man  saw  his  mother 
turn  red  in  the  face,  and  rear  herself  in  order  of  battle,  as 
it  were,  when  she  saw  who  her  caller  was ;  then  he  heard 
Esther  speak. 

"  I'm  a-comin'  right  to  the  p'int  afore  I  come  in,"  said 
she.  "I've  heard  you  said  you  didn't  want  your  son  to 
marry  my  granddaughter  because  you  didn't  like  some 
things  about  me.  Now,  I  want  to  know  if  you  said  it." 

"  Yes ;  I  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Little,  tremulous  with  agita 
tion,  red,  and  perspiring,  but  not  weakening. 

"Then  you  didn't  have  nothin'  again'  Hatty,  you  nor 
Henry  ?  'Twa'n't  an  excuse  ?" 

"  I  ain't  never  had  anything  against  the  girl." 

"Then  I  want  to  come  in  a  minute.  I've  got  somethin' 
I  want  to  say  to  you,  Mrs.  Little." 

"Well,  you  can  come  in — if  you  want  to." 


312  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

After  Esther  had  entered,  Henry  stood  looking  wistfully 
at  the  windows.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not  wait 
to  know  the  reason  of  Esther's  visit.  He  took  things  more 
soberly  than  Hatty  ;  he  had  not  lost  his  meals  nor  his  sleep  ; 
still  he  had  suffered.  He  was  very  fond  of  the  girl,  and  he 
had  a  heart  which  was  not  easily  diverted.  It  was  hardly 
possible  that  he  would  ever  die  of  grief,  but  it  was  quite 
possible  that  he  might  live  long  with  a  memory,  young  as 
he  was. 

When  his  mother  escorted  Esther  to  the  door,  as  she  took 
leave,  there  was  a  marked  difference  in  her  manner.  "Come 
again  soon,  Mis'  Gay,"  he  heard  her  say;  "run  up  any  time 
you  feel  like  it,  an'  stay  to  tea.  I'd  really  like  to  have 
you." 

"  Thank  ye,"  said  Esther,  as  she  went  down  the  steps. 
She  had  an  aspect  of  sweetness  about  her  which  did  not 
seem  to  mix  well  with  herself. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  Hatty  lying  on  the 
lounge.  "How  do  you  feel  to-night?"  said  she,  unpinning 
her  shawl. 

"Pretty  well." 

"You'd  better  go  an'  brush  your  hair  an'  change  your 
dress.  I've  been  over  to  Henry's  an'  seen  his  mother,  an' 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  over  here  to-night." 

Hatty  sat  bolt  upright  and  looked  at  her  grandmother. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  What  I  say.  I've  been  over  to  Mrs.  Little's,  an'  we've 
had  a  talk.  I  guess  she  thought  she'd  been  kind  of  silly  to 
make  such  a  fuss.  I  reasoned  with  her,  an'  I  guess  she 
saw  I'd  been  more  right  about  some  things  than  she'd 
thought  for.  An'  as  far  as  goin'  to  meetin'  an'  knittin' 
Sundays  is  concerned —  Well,  I  don't  s'pose  I  kin  knit 


AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  313 

any  more  if  I  want  to.  I've  been  to  see  about  it,  an'  La- 
viny  Dodge  is  comin'  here  Saturday,  an'  she's  so  bad  with 
her  rheumatiz  that  she  can't  move,  an'  I  guess  it'll  be  all  I 
kin  do  to  wait  on  her,  without  doin'  much  knittin'.  Mebbe 
I  kin  git  a  few  minutes  evenin's,  but  I  reckon  'twon't 
amount  to  much.  Of  course  I  couldn't  go  to  meetin'  if  I 
wanted  to.  I  couldn't  leave  Laviny." 

"Did  she  say  he — was  coming?" 

"Yes;  she  said  she  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  up." 

The  young  man  did  come  that  evening,  and  Esther  re 
tired  to  her  little  bedroom  early,  and  lay  listening  happily 
to  the  soft  murmur  of  voices  outside.  Lavinia  Dodge  ar 
rived  Saturday.  The  next  morning,  when  Hatty  had  gone 
to  church,  she  called  Esther.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
a  minute,"  said  she.  "I  want  to  know  if —  Mr.  Winter 
brought  me  over,  and  he  married  the  Ball  girl  that's  been 
in  the  post-office,  you  know,  and  somethin'  he  said —  Esther 
Gay,  I  want  to  know  if  you're  the  one  that's  been  sendin' 
that  money  to  me  and  mother  all  along?" 

Esther  colored,  and  turned  to  go.  "  I  don't  see  why  you 
think  it's  me." 

"  Esther,  don't  you  go.  I  know  'twas ;  you  can't  say 
'twa'n't." 

"  It  wa'n't  much,  anyhow." 

"  'Twas  to  us.  It  kept  us  goin'  a  good  while  longer.  We 
never  said  anythin'  about  it.  Mother  was  awful  proud,  you 
know,  but  I  dunno  what  we  should  have  done.  Esther, 
how  could  you  do  it?" 

"  Oh,  it  wa'n't  anythin'.  It  was  extra  money.  I  airn'cl 
it." 

"Knittin'?" 

Esther  jerked  her  head  defiantly.     The  sick  woman  be- 


314  AN  INDEPENDENT  THINKER. 

gan  to  cry.  "  If  I'd  ha'  known,  I  would  ha'  come.  I 
wouldn't  have  said  a  word." 

"  Yes,  you  would,  too.  You  was  bound  to  stan'  up  for 
what  you  thought  was  right,  jest  as  much  as  I  was.  Now, 
we've  both  stood  up,  an'  it's  all  right.  Don't  you  fret  no 
more  about  it." 

"  To  think—" 

"  Land  sakes,  don't  cry.  The  tea's  all  steeped,  and  I'm 
goin'  to  bring  you  in  a  cup  now." 

Henry  came  that  evening.  About  nine  o'clock  Esther 
got  a  pitcher  and  went  down  to  the  well  to  draw  some  wa 
ter  for  the  invalid.  Her  old  joints  were  so  tired  and  stiff 
that  she  could  scarcely  move.  She  had  had  a  hard  day. 
After  she  had  filled  her  pitcher  she  stood  resting  for  a  mo 
ment,  staring  up  at  the  bright  sitting-room  windows.  Henry 
and  Hatty  were  in  there :  just  a  simple,  awkward  young 
pair,  with  nothing  beautiful  about  them,  save  the  spark  of 
eternal  nature,  which  had  its  own  light.  But  they  sat  up 
stiffly  and  timidly  in  their  two  chairs,  looking  at  each  other 
with  full  content.  They  had  glanced  solemnly  and  bash 
fully  at  Esther  when  she  passed  through  the  room ;  she 
appeared  not  to  see  them. 

Standing  at  the  well,  looking  up  at  the  windows,  she 
chuckled  softly  to  herself.  "It's  all  settled  right,"  said 
she,  "  an'  there  don't  none  of  'em  suspect  that  I'm  a-carry- 
in'  out  my  p'int  arter  all." 


Iff  BUTTERFLY  TIME. 

11  SEEMS  to  me  the  butterflies  is  dretful  thick  this  season, 
Becca." 

"  Yes,  they  do  seem  to  be  considerable  thick,  mother." 

"  I  never  see  'em  so  thick.  Thar's  hull  swarms  on  'em  : 
lots  of  them  common  yaller  ones,  an'  leetle  rusty  red  ones ; 
an'  thar's  some  of  them  big  spotted  ones,  ain't  thar  ?  Near's 
I  kin  see  through  my  specs,  thar's  one  now  a-settin'  on  that 
head  of  clover." 

"Yes,  there  is  one,  mother." 

"Thar's  lots  of  grasshoppers  too.  The  grasshoppers  air 
a-risin'  up  around  my  feet,  an'  the  butterflies  air  flyin'  up  in 
my  face  out  of  the  flowers.  Law,  hev  we  got  to  the  bars 
a'ready?  I  hadn't  no  idee  on't.  Be  keerful  about  lettin' 
on  'em  down,  Becca." 

The  younger  of  the  two  old  women  let  down  the  bars 
which  separated  the  blooming  field  which  they  had  been 
traversing  from  the  road,  and  they  passed  through. 

"  S'pose  you'd  better  put  'em  up  agin,  Becca,  though  thar 
ain't  any  need  on't,  as  I  see.  Thar  ain't  nothin'  in  the 
field  to  git  out  but  the  butterflies  an'  the  grasshoppers,  an' 
they'll  git  out  if  they  want  to,  whether  or  no.  Let  me  take 
holt." 

"  There  ain't  any  need  of  it,  mother." 


316  ^Ar  BUTTERFLY  TIME. 

"  Yes,  I  will,  too,  Becca  Wheat.  I'm  jest  as  strong  in  my 
arms  as  ever  I  was.  You  ain't  no  call  to  think  I  ain't." 

"  I  don't  think  so,  mother ;  I  know  you're  real  strong." 

"  I  allers  was  pretty  strong  to  lift — stronger'n  yon." 

The  bars  up,  the  two  women  kept  on  down  the  road.  It 
was  bordered  by  stone  walls  and  flowering  bushes.  Ahead, 
just  as  far  as  they  could  see,  was  one  white  house.  They 
were  going  there  to  a  women's  prayer-meeting. 

The  older  of  the  two  kept  a  little  ahead  of  the  younger, 
trotting  weakly  through  the  short,  dusty  grass.  Her  small, 
old  head  in  a  black  straw  bonnet  bobbed  in  lime  to  every 
step ;  her  sharp,  yellow  little  face  peeped  out  of  the  bon 
net,  alert  and  half  aggressive.  She  wore  a  short  black 
shawl  tightly  drawn  over  her  narrow,  wiry  back,  and  held 
her  hands  folded  primly  in  front  over  the  two  ends. 

The  other  woman,  her  daughter,  pacing  dreamily  behind, 
was  taller  and  slenderer.  Her  face  was  pale  and  full,  but 
slightly  wrinkled,  with  a  Sweet,  wide  mouth.  The  pleasant 
expression  about  it  was  so  decided  that  it  was  almost  a 
smile.  Her  dress  was  slightly  younger,  a  hat  instead  of  a 
bonnet,  and  no  shawl  over  her  black  calico  afternoon  dress. 

As  they  drew  nearer  to  the  house  the  old  woman  peered 
anxiously  ahead  through  her  spectacles. 

"See  any  one  thar,  Becca?" 

"  I  should  think  two  women  jest  went  in.  I  couldn't  tell 
who  they  was." 

"  You'd  orter  wear  your  spectacles,  Becca  ;  your  eyesight 
ain't  so  good  as  mine  was  at  your  age.  She's  got  her  front 
room  open  for  the  meetin'.  I  kin  see  the  curtains  flappin'." 

Quite  a  strong  soft  wind  was  blowing.  As  they  went  up 
the  front  walk  between  the  phlox  bushes  with  their  purplish- 
pink  heads,  the  green  curtains  with  a  flowery  border  swung 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  317 

out  of  the  windows  of  Mrs.  Thomas's  best  room,  the  one  on 
the  right  of  the  front  door. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  a  mildly  curious  face  or  two 
showed  through  the  windows. 

"  Thar's  old  Mis'  Wheat  an'  Becca,"  said  some  one  in  a 
whisper  to  Mrs.  Thomas,  and  she  came  to  the  door. 

There  was  a  solemn  composure  on  her  large,  comfortable 
face.  "  Good  -afternoon,  Mis'  Wheat."  said  she;  "good- 
afternoon,  Becca.  Walk  in." 

They  walked  in  with  staid  demeanor,  and  took  their  seats. 
The  chairs  were  set  close  to  the  walls  around  the  room. 
There  were  nine  or  ten  women  there  with  good,  grave  faces. 
One  old  woman  sat  close  to  the  mantel -shelf,  and  Mrs. 
Wheat  took  a  vacant  chair  beside  her. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mis'  Dill?"  whispered  she,  reaching  out 
her  little  skinny  hand. 

The  other  shook  it  stiffly.  She  was  as  small  as  Mrs. 
Wheat,  but  her  little  face  was  round,  and  her  chin  had  a 
square  decision  in  its  cut,  instead  of  a  sharp  one.  She  had 
a  clean,  nicely  folded  white  handkerchief  in  her  lap,  and  she 
wiped  her  spectacles  carefully  with  it  and  looked  through 
them  at  Mrs.  Wheat  before  replying. 

"I'm  enjoyin'  pretty  good  health  jest  now,  thankee,  Mis' 
Wheat,"  whispered  she. 

Mrs.  Wheat's  eyes  snapped.  "  You  do  seem  to  be  lookin' 
pretty  middlin'  for  one  of  your  age,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Dili  gave  a  stony  look  at  her. 

The  meeting  began  then.  The  good  women  read  in  the 
Bible  and  prayed,  one  after  another,  the  others  silent  on 
their  knees  beside  her.  Their  husbands  and  sons  in  the 
hay-fields,  the  children  in  the  district  school,  the  too  light- 
minded  though  innocent  village  girls,  the  minister  wrest- 
21 


3I8  IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME. 

ling  with  his  dull  sermon  faithfully  in  his  shabby  study,  the 
whole  world,  were  remembered  in  their  homely  petitions. 
The  south  wind  sang  in  at  the  windows  ;  a  pine-tree  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  soughed ;  the  locusts  cried  shrilly  over 
in  the  blossoming  fields;  and  their  timid  prayers  went  up. 

Old  Mrs.  Wheat,  in  her  corner,  on  her  knees,  listened  with 
an  outward  show  of  reverence,  but  she  was  inwardly  torn 
with  jealousy.  She  was  the  last  one  called  upon  to  take 
part ;  even  old  Mrs.  Dill  was  preferred  before  her.  But 
she  had  her  revenge;  when  she  did  get  her  chance  to  speak, 
long  and  weary  was  the  time  she  kept  her  devout  sisters  on 
their  aching  knees. 

She  had  been  storing  up  a  good  deal  to  say  while  the 
others  were  praying,  and  now  she  said  it.  For  church  and 
town  and  commonwealth,  for  missions  at  home  and  abroad, 
her  shrill  cry  went  up.  Lastly  she  prayed,  with  emphatic 
quavers,  for  old  Mrs.  Dill.  "O  Lord,"  pleaded  she,  "re- 
member,  we  pray  thee,  this  aged  handmaiden  at  my  side. 
May  she  long  enjoy  what  blessin's  are  left  to  her  in  her  age 
an'  clecrepitood.  Sanctify  her  trials  unto  her,  an'  enable 
her  to  look  away  from  the  feebleness  an'  want  of  strength 
which  is  now  her  lot  on  this  airth,  to  that  better  country 
where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  air  at 
rest." 

When  the  prayer  was  ended,  Mrs.  Dill  rose  softly  from 
her  knees  and  sat  down.  Her  face  was  absolutely  immov 
able  as  she  met  Mrs.  Wheat's  glance  when  the  meeting 
dispersed. 

The  two  old  ladies  were  left  alone  in  the  best  room  for  a 
little  while.  Mrs.  Thomas,  who  was  Mrs.  Dill's  daughter, 
wanted  to  see  Becca  about  something,  so  she  called  her  out 
into  the  sitting-room. 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  319 

"  You  an'  Mis'  Wheat  can  visit  a  little  while,  while  Becca 
an'  I  are  out  here,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Dill  looked  at  her  daughter  when  she  said  this,  as 
if  inclined  to  decline  the  proposal.  Then  an  expression 
of  stubborn  fortitude  came  over  her  face,  and  she  settled 
herself  solidly  in  her  chair. 

The  two  looked  primly  at  each  other  when  they  were  left 
alone. 

"How  is  Mis'  Thomas?"  said  Mrs.  Wheat;  "and  how 
is  Adoniram  ?'' 

"  They  air  both  well,  thank  ye." 

"  I  s'pose  Adoniram  is  to  work  ?" 

"HayinV 

"I  thought  I  ketched  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  field  over 
thar  when  I  come  in.  Adoniram  grows  old,  don't  he?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  I  sot  lookin'  at  him  in  meetin'  last  Sabbath,  an'  thinkin' 
how  dretfully  he  was  altered.  I  hope  he'll  be  spared  to  you 
as  long  as  you  live,  Mis'  Dill.  It's  consider'ble  better  on 
your  account  that  he  hain't  never  got  married,  ain't  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Dill  reddened,  and  stiffened  her  chin  a  little. 
"Thar's  a  good  many  folks  don't  git  married,  Mis'  Wheat, 
men,  an'  women  too,  sometimes." 

"  Becca  could  'a  got  married  dozens  of  times,  if  she'd 
wanted  to,  Mis'  Dill." 

"  I  s'pose  so." 

"  See  here,  Mis'  Dill,  s'pose  we  come  to  the  p'int.  You're 
allers  kinder  flingin'  at  me,  an'  I  know  well  enough  what  it 
means.  You've  allers  blamed  me  'cause  you  thought  I 
come  betwixt  my  Becca  an'  your  Adoniram,  an'  I  didn't  as 
I  knows  on." 

"Oh  no;  course  you  didn't." 


320  IN  B  UTTERFL  Y  TIME. 

"I  s'pose  you  don't  believe  it,  Mis'  Dill?" 

"  No ;  I  ain't  forgot  how  Acloniram  come  home  from  your 
house,  jest  about  this  time  o'  year,  a  matter  o'  forty  year 
ago." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

Mrs.  Dill  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair,  and  talked  with 
slow  emphasis.  Her  eyes  never  winked. 

"Jest  about  this  time  in  the  afternoon,  an'  this  time  o' 
year,  'bout  forty  year  ago,  Adoniram  come  home  from  your 
house.  They'd  got  the  hay  in  the  day  before,  so  he  had  a 
leetle  restin'  spell,  an'  he  went  right  over  thar.  I  knowed 
where  he'd  gone  well  enough,  though  he  made  up  an  arrant 
after  a  rake  to  Deacon  White's.  I  knowed  he'd  stop  to 
Becca's  before  he  got  home.  She'd  been  off  visitin',  an'  he 
hadn't  seen  her  for  a  week.  She'd  jest  got  home  that 
mornin'.  Well,  Adoniram  went,  an'  he  come  home.  I  was 
a-goin'  through  the  front  entry  when  he  come  in  through 
the  settin'-room.  He  was  jest  as  pale  as  death.  I  asked 
him  what  the  matter  was,  an'  he  wouldn't  say  nothin'.  The 
door  stood  open  in  here,  an'  he  come  in  an'  dropped  into 
a  cheer  by  the  table,  an'  put  his  head  down  on  it.  I  coaxed 
an'  coaxed,  an'  finally  I  got  it  out  of  him.  He'd  been  over 
to  Becca's,  an'  you'd  treated  him  so  he  couldn't  ever  go 
agin.  He  said  you  didn't  like  him,  an'  that  was  the  end 
on't.  Becca  couldn't  go  agin  her  mother's  wishes,  an'  he 
wasn't  ever  goin  to  ask  her  to.  Adoniram  had  jest  joined 
the  church  that  spring,  an'  he'd  jest  as  soon  cut  his  hand 
off  as  to  lead  Becca  to  disobey  her  parents.  He's  allers 
had  a  strong  feelin'  that  marriages  made  that  way  wa'n't 
blessed.  I've  heerd  him  say  so  a  good  many  times.  So — " 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  I  ever  did  to  mistreat  Adoniram, 
Mis'  Dill." 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  $2l 

"  He  never  told  me  the  hull  perticklars.  Thar  was  some- 
thin'  'bout  a  butterfly." 

"Lor,  I  remember.  'Twa'n't  nothin'  —  nothin'  at  all 
Young  folks  air  so  silly !  I  remember  jest  as  well  as  ef 
'twas  yisterday.  Adoniram  an'  Becca  was  out  in  the  yard 
in  front  of  the  house.  Becca  had  it  all  laid  out  in  flower 
beds  jest  as  it  is  now,  an'  thar  was  swarms  of  butterflies 
round  'em.  They  was  out  thar  in  the  yard,  an'  I  was  in 
the  settin'-room  -winder.  They  was  kinder  foolin,'  an'  all  of 
a  sudden  Adoniram  he  begun  chasin'  a  butterfly.  It  was 
one  of  them  great  blue-spotted  ones.  He  caught  it  mighty 
spry,  an'  was  a-givin'  it  to  Becca,  when  I  said  somethin'  out 
o'  the  winder.  I  don't  know  jest  what  it  'twas.  I  thought 
'twas  dretful  silly  for  him  to  waste  his  time  ketchin'  butter 
flies,  an'  Becca  had  some  sewin'  I  wanted  her  to  do.  I 
s'pose  'twas  somethin'  'bout  that." 

"  You  didn't  think  Adoniram  was  good  enough  for  Becca ; 
that  was  the  hull  on't." 

"That  wa'n't  it,  Mis'  Dill.  I  don't  see  how  you  come  to 
think  such  a  thing." 

"You'd  jest  set  your  heart  on  havin'  her  git  that  rich 
Arms  feller ;  you  know  you  had.  But  she  didn't ;  she  didn't 
git  anybody." 

Mrs.  Dill's  thin  voice  quavered  and  shook,  and  her  little 
bony  form  trembled  all  over,  but  the  spirit  within  her  mani 
fested  itself  bravely  through  shakes  and  quavers. 

"You  air  misjudgin'  of  me,  Mis'  Dill,  an'  you  ain't  show- 
in'  a  Christian  spirit.  You'll  be  sorry  for  it  when  you  come 
to  think  it  over.  You'll  see  'twas  all  jest  the  way  I  said 
'twas,  'an  I  didn't  mean  nothin'.  Let  alone  anything  else, 
it's  awful  cruel  to  ketch  butterflies ;  you  know  that,  Mis' 
Dill." 


322  IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME. 

"You've  done  a  cruder  thing  than  ketchin'  butterflies, 
Martha  Wheat." 

"  Well,  Mis'  Dill,  we'd  better  not  talk  'bout  this  any  long 
er.  Tain't  jest  becomin'  after  the  meetin'  we've  jest  had 
to  git  to  disputin'.  Thar's  Becca." 

Going  home  along  the  green-bordered  road  and  across 
the  flowery  field,  Rebecca  Wheat  noticed  that  something 
seemed  to  have  disturbed  her  mother.  The  nervous  old 
woman  fretted  and  fidgeted.  In  the  middle  of  the  field  she 
stopped  short,  and  almost  danced  up  and  down  with  feeble, 
childish  wrath. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  mother  ?" 

"Them  pesky  butterflies!"  ejaculated  her  mother,  wav 
ing  her  trembling  hands.  "  I'd  like  to  poison  their  honey 
for  'em." 

"  Let  me  go  on  ahead,  mother ;  then  they  won't  bother 
you  so  much.  I  kin  kinder  brush  them  away." 

"  Well,  you  may,  ef  you're  a  mind  ter.  Say,  Becca — 
speakin'  of  butterflies  brings  it  to  mind.  You  never  thought 
I  was  ter  blame  'bout  separatin'  you  'an  Adoniram  Dill, 
did  you?" 

The  old  daughter  looked  pleasantly  into  her  old  mother's 
face.  "  I  didn't  blame  anybody,  mother.  I  didn't  think 
you  used  to  like  Adoniram  very  well ;  but  it's  all  over 
now." 

"You  didn't  take  it  to  heart  much,  did  you,  Becca?" 

"  Not  enough  to  hurt  me  any,  I  guess.  Do  you  mind 
the  butterflies  so  much  with  me  ahead  ?" 

"  No,  I  guess  I  don't.  I've  kinder  been  thinkin'  on't 
over  lately,  an'  ef  I  was  kinder  sharp  'bout  that  butterfly 
business,  an'  hindered  you  an'  Adoniram's  makin'  a  match 
on't,  I  ain't  above  sayin'  I  might  hev  been  a  leetle  more 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  323 

keerful.  Adoniram's  turned  out  pretty  well.  Mis'  Hig- 
gins  told  me  yisterday  that  he'd  jest  bought  that  ten-acre 
lot  of  Deacon  White's.  I  guess  he  must  hev  been  layin'  up 
money.  Well,  Becca,  I  dessay  you  air  better  off  than  you 
would  be  ef  you'd  been  married.  It's  pretty  resky." 
1  Rebecca,  plodding  before  her  mother,  looked  ahead  at 
the  familiar  landscape,  with  that  expression  of  strong,  pleas 
ant  patience  which  the  years  seemed  to  have  brought  out 
in  relief  on  her  face,  like  the  chasing  on  silver.  It  made 
her  more  attractive  than  she  had  been  in  her  youth,  for  she 
had  never  been  pretty. 

She  and  her  mother  reached  the  comfortable  house,  with 
three  great  elms  in. front  of  it,  where  they  lived,  two  hours 
before  sunset. 

About  an  hour  later  Adoniram  Dill  also  went  home  from 
his  labor  across  the  fields.  He  was  a  tall,  muscular  old 
man,  with  a  strong-featured,  beardless  face.  He  was  so 
straight  and  agile  that  he  looked,  the  width  of  a  field  away, 
like  a  young  man.  When  he  came  nearer,  one  saw  his  iron- 
gray  hair,  the  deep  seams,  and  the  old  brown  tint  of  his 
face,  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

Supper  was  not  quite  ready,  so  after  he  had  washed  his 
face  and  hands  at  the  kitchen  sink  he  went  into  the  sitting- 
room,  and  sat  down  in  a  calico-covered  rocking-chair  with 
a  newspaper.  His  mother  looked  in  presently,  and  saw 
him  there. 

She  stood  in  the  entry-door  and  beckoned  him  solemnly. 
"  Come  into  the  parlor  a  minute,"  she  whispered  ;  "  I've 
got  somethin'  I  want  to  tell  you,  an'  the  children  will  be 
racin'  in  here." 

Adoniram  rose  and  followed  her  in  obediently. 

She  shut  the  parlor  door  and  looked  round  at  him.    "  Ad- 


324  IN  B  UTTERFL  Y  TIME. 

oniram,  what  do  you  think  ?  Mis'  Wheat  was  over  to  the 
meetin'  this  arternoon,  and  she  an'  me  hed  a  little  talk 
arter  the  others  was  gone,  an'  she  brought  up  that  old  af 
fair  of  you  an'  Becca  agin." 

"  There  ain't  any  use  bringin'  it  up,  mother." 
"  She  says  she  didn't  mean  a  thing  when  she  talked  to 
you  so  about  that  butterfly  business.  She  jest  thought  you 
hadn't  orter  be  wastin'  your  time  doin'  sech  cruel  things  as 
ketchin'  butterflies,  an'  she  wanted  Becca  to  come  in  an' 
do  some  sevvin'.  That's  what  she  said.  I  let  her  know  I 
didn't  believe  a  word  on't.  I  told  her  right  to  her  face 
that  she  thought  you  wa'n't  good  enough  for  Becca,  an'  she 
wanted  her  to  hev  that  rich  Arms  feller." 

"  Seems  to  me  I'd  have  let  it  all  gone,  mother." 
"  I  war'n't  goin'  to  let  it  all  go,  Adoniram.  I'm  slow- 
spoken,  an'  I  don't  often  speak,  but  once  in  a  while  I've 
got  to.  She's  the  most  aggervatin' — I  don't  know  what 
you  would  hev  done  with  her  ef  you  hed  merried  Becca. 
You'd  hed  to  hev  her  arter  Mr.  Wheat  died.  She  ain't 
never  liked  me.  She  tried  to  be  dretful  nice  to  me  to-day, 
'cause  she'd  got  an  axe  to  grind ;  but  she'd  got  so  much 
spite  in  her  she  couldn't  help  it  showin'  out  a  leetle.  Why, 
she  kerried  it  into  the  prayer-meetin',  she  did,  Adoniram. 
She  prayed  for  me,  'cause  I  was  so  old  an'  broken  down, 
an'  she's  three  year  older'n  me.  I  think  it's  awful  to  show 
out  that  way  in  a  prayer-meetin'." 
"  P'rhaps  she  didn't  mean  anything." 
<c  Yes,  she  did.  I  knew  jest  what  she  meant  by  the  hull 
on't,  Adoniram  Dill.  She's  got  kinder  sick  livin'  thar  alone 
with  Becca,  without  any  man  to  split  up  kindlin'-wood  an' 
bring  in  water,  an'  she's  tryin'  to  git  you  back  agin.  She 
lest  the  same  as  said  she  hedn't  no  objections  to  it.  I 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  325 

guess  she  thinks  you've  been  doin'  pretty  well,  too.  She 
thinks  it  would  be  a  mighty  nice  thing  now  to  hev  you  step 
in  thar  with  your  money  an'  wait  on  'em.  I  see  through 
her." 

"  P'rhaps  it  ain't  so,  mother." 

"  Yes,  'tis.  Adoniram  Dill,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you'd 
hev  any  idee  of  marryin'  Becca  Wheat,  arter  you've  been 
treated  as  you  hev  ?" 

"  You  ain't  heard  me  say  any  such  thing,  mother." 

"  I  thought  you  looked  kinder  queer.  You  wouldn't, 
would  you,  Adoniram  ?" 

"  Not  if  it  didn't  seem  for — the  best.     I  don't — know.'' 

All  of  a  sudden  Adoniram  Dill  sat  down  beside  the  little 
parlor  table  and  leaned  his  head  on  it  as  he  had  forty  years 
ago. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  his  mother  asked,  with  a  scared 
start,  looking  at  him  with  awed  eyes.  It  was  almost  like  a 
coming  back  of  the  dead,  this  rising  of  her  son's  youth 
from  its  snowy  and  grassy  grave  in  her  sight.  "  Oh, 
Adoniram,  you  poor  boy,  you  ain't  felt  jest  the  same  way 
about  her  all  these  years?  It's  awful.  I  hadn't  any  idee 
on't." 

"  Never  mind,  mother.  Jane's  callin'  us  to  su-pper ;  you 
go  right  along,  an'  I'll  come  in  a  minute." 

"  Thar  ain't  any  need  of  your  havin'  any  more  frettin' 
about  it,  anyhow,  Adoniram.  Her  mother's  willin',  an'  I 
ain't  a  doubt  but  Becca  is.  I've  seen  her  look  kinder  down 
hearted  sometimes  ;  for  all  she's  so  good  an'  uncomplain- 
in',  I  guess  she's  been  worried  as  well  as  some  other  folks. 
You  jest  slick  up  arter  supper,  an'  go  right  over  an'  ask  her. 
Thar  ain't  no  reason  at  all  why  you  shouldn't.  You  ain't 
nuther  of  you  so  very  old,  not  more'n  sixty.  An'  I  don' 


3 26  IW  BUTTERFLY  TIME. 

know  as  Mis'  Wheat  '11  be  so  very  bad  to  git  along  with. 
I  clessay  she's  meant  all  right." 

Adoniram  said  nothing.  He  rose  with  an  effort,  and 
went  out  to  supper  with  his  mother,  who  kept  gazing  at 
him  with  loving,  questioning  eyes. 

"  Ain't  you  goin'  ?"  she  whispered  when  they  were  in  the 
sitting-room  again. 

"  I  guess  not  to-night,  mother." 

"  Well,  mebbe  V/V  jest  as  well  to  wait  till  to-morrer.  I 
don't  want  Mis'  Wheat  to  think  you  was  in  too  much  of  a 
rush." 

After  his  mother  had  gone  to  bed,  and  out-of-doors  the 
summer  night  was  complete  with  all  its  stars,  he  sat  down 
alone  on  the  front  door-step,  and  thought.  He  felt  like  a 
wanderer  returned  to  some  beautiful,  dear  country,  the  true 
home  of  his  heart,  which  he  had  thought  to  never  see  again. 
To-night  the  golden  gates  of  youth  swung  open  with  sweet 
music  for  Adoniram  Dill,  with  his  gray  locks  and  his  hard, 
seamed  face,  and  he  entered  in,  never  knowing  he  was  any 
different. 

The  steadiness  with  which  he  had  kept  to  his  ideas  of 
duty  for  the  last  forty  years  gave  his  happiness,  now  that 
the  long  strain  was  over,  an  almost  unearthly,  holy  charac 
ter.  It  was  truly  the  reward  of  virtue.  The  faithful  old 
man  who  had  taken  what  he  considered  to  be  the  right 
course  for  himself  and  the  woman  he  loved,  without  ques 
tion  or  appeal  to  that  mandate  of  obedience  which  he  read 
so  literally,  was  capable  at  sixty  of  being  as  freely  happy 
as  a  child. 

The  sordid  motives  which  had  possibly  actuated  Becca's 
mother  to  withdraw  her  opposition  at  last  did  not  fret  him 
at  all.  He  was  far  above  it.  That  hard,  shrill  voice  which 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  327 

had  rung  out  of  that  sitting-room  window  for  him  for  the 
last  forty  years  was  still.  The  voice  had  .truly  said  cruel 
things,  more  cruel  than  its  owner  would  own  to  now.  The 
poor,  honest  young  man  had  gone  away  that  day  with  the 
full  and  settled  understanding  that  his  sweetheart's  mother 
was  bitterly  opposed  to  him,  and  that  must  be  the  end  of 
it  all.  He  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as  urging  her  to 
marry  him  without  her  mother's  consent. 

So  he  had  never  been  since  in  that  front  yard,  full  of  roses 
and  pinks  and  butterflies. 

He  and  Rebecca  had  met  in  the  village  society  like  kind 
ly  acquaintances  for  all  these  years. 

Adoniram,  looking  across  the  little  country  church  Sun 
day  after  Sunday  as  the  years  went  on,  might  have  seen  the 
woman  growing  old  who  should  have  grown  old  by  his  side, 
with  bitter  regret,  and  Rebecca,  with  patient  sadness,  have 
marked  his  entrance  among  all  the  congregation  ;  but  no 
one  had  known. 

The  day  after  the  meeting  Adoniram  had  to  drive  over 
to  the  store  on  business.  On  his  way  back  he  passed  a 
house  where  an  aged  sister  of  Mrs.  Wheat's  lived,  and  saw, 
with  a  start,  the  latter's  thin  face  at  a  window.  "  I  wonder 
if  Becca's  home  ?"  said  he.  Then  he  drove  on  quicker, 
with  a  gathering  resolution. 

About  four  o'clock  he  was  going  across  lots  through  the 
field  towards  the  Wheats'.  He  had  on  his  Sunday  coat. 
When  about  halfway  across  he  saw  a  woman's  figure  ap 
proaching.  Soon  he  saw  it  was  Rebecca.  He  stood  in 
the  narrow  footpath,  between  the  tall  clover  and  daisies 
and  herd's-grass  which  came  up  to  his  knees,  and  waited. 

She  greeted  him,  when  she  reached  him,  in  her  usual 
good,  placid  way.  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Dill  ?5> 


328  IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME. 

"  I  was  comin'  to  see  you,  Becca." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  the  calm  lines  in  her  face  changed 
a  little.  "  I'll  go  back.  I  was  going  after  mother,  that 
was  all  j  but  she  won't  be  in  any  hurry." 

"  No,  there  ain't  any  need  of  your  goin'  back.  I  can  say 
what  I  wanted  to  jest  as  well  here,  an'  then  you  can  keep 
right  on  after  your  mother.  Becca,  supposin'  'twas  forty 
year  ago,  an'  you  an'  me  was  here,  an'  your  mother  was 
willin',  what  would  you  say  ef  I  asked  you  to  marry  me?" 

Great  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  Adoniram,  it 
wouldn't  be  fair." 

"  Don't  you  think  your  mother  would  be  willin'  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  she's  so  set  agin  it  as  she  was,  but 
^wouldn't  be  fair.  I'm  sixty  year  old,  Adoniram." 

"  So'm  I,  Becca." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  Adoniram,  it  ain't  any  use. 
It  might  have  been  different  once.  Now,  after  all  this 
time,  when  I'm  old  an'  broken  down,  an'  the  fault  of  all  the 
trouble  on  my  side  of  the  house,  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  so  mean 
as  to  let  you  marry  me.  It  ain't  fair." 

Adoniram  gave  one  step  forward,  and  caught  his  old 
sweetheart  in  his  arms.  "  I've  been  waitin'  for  you  forty 
year,  Becca,  an'  there  ain't  nothin'  more  comin'  betwixt  us. 
Don't  you  say  anything  more  about  its  not  bein'  fair." 

"  You  know  mother'll  hev  to  live  with  us." 

"  I'll  try  an'  make  her  jest  as  happy  as  I  can." 

The  clover  and  the  grasses  rustled  in  the  wind,  aYid  the 
butterflies  came  flying  around  the  old  man  and  his  old 
sweetheart  standing  there.  It  would  have  made  no  differ 
ence  to  them  if  they  had  been  waiting  in  their  little  chrys 
alis  coffins  a  hundred  years  or  so,  they  were  butterflies 
now.  There  were  yellow  ones  and  little  rusty  red  ones,  and 


IN  BUTTERFLY  TIME.  329 

now  and  then  a  gorgeous  large  one  with  blue  spots  on  his 
black  wings.  Seeing  one  of  these  made  Adoniram  remem 
ber  something  swiftly. 

"  Wani  me  to  ketch  a  butterfly  for  you,  Becca  ?" 
"  I've  got  one  now  you  caught  forty  year  ago." 


AN   UNWILLING   GUEST. 

11  I'VE  been  lookin'  in  the  pantry,  an'  you  ain't  got  a  bit 
of  cake  in  the  house.  I'm  goin'  to  work  an'  make  you  a 
good  loaf  of  cup-cake  before  I  go  home." 

"  Oh  !  I  wouldn't,  Mis'  Steele  ;  it'll  be  too  much  work." 

"  Work  !  I  guess  I  ain't  quite  so  feeble  but  I  can  make 
a  loaf  of  cup-cake." 

"  You've  got  on  your  nice  silk  dress." 

"  H'm !  I  ain't  afraid  of  this  old  silk.  Where's  the 
eggs  ?" 

"There  ain't  a  bit  of  need  of  our  havin'  any  cake — Law- 
son  an'  me  don't  eat  much  cake,  anyway.  Besides,  he  can 
make  it." 

"Guess  he  ain't  much  time  to  make  cake  whilst  he's 
plantin'.  Besides,  'twould  drive  me  crazy  to  have  a  man 
messin'  round.  Where'll  I  find  some  eggs?" 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  any  in  the  house.  You're  real 
good  to  offer,  Mis'  Steele,  but  I  don't  believe  there's  any 
need  on't." 

"Where'd  the  eggs  be  if  there  was  any  in  the  house?" 

"  I  guess  he  keeps  'em  in  a  little  brown  basket  in  front 
of  the  window  in  the  pantry." 

"  Here's  the  basket,  but  there  ain't  any  eggs  in  it.  Don't 
you  s'pose  I  could  find  some  out  in  the  barn  ?" 


AN  UNWILLING  GUEST.  331 

"You  don't  want  to  go  huntin'  round  in  the  barn  with 
that  good  dress  on." 

"  Guess  I  sha'n't  hurt  it  any." 

Mrs.  Steele  stalked  out  of  the  room,  the  little  basket  dang 
ling  from  her  hand.  Her  black-silk  dress  rattled  and  her 
new,  shiny  shoes  creaked.  She  had  on  some  jingling  chains 
and  bracelets,  and  long  gold  ear-rings  with  little  balls  at 
tached,  which  swung  and  bobbed  and  tinkled  as  she  walked. 

Susan  Lawson,  at  the  window,  could  not  see  her,  as  she 
was  faced  the  other  way,  but  she  listened  to  the  noise  of  her 
departure.  She  heard  two  doors  slam,  and  the  creaking 
steps  very  faint  in  the  distance. 

"  Oh  dear  !"  said  she.  She  pressed  her  lips  together  and 
leaned  her  head  back.  The  clock  ticked  loud  ;  a  sunbeam, 
with  a  broad  slant  of  dancing  motes  in  it,  streamed  in  the 
window.  Susan's  old  face  looked  like  porcelain  in  the 
strong  light,  which  seemed  to  almost  shine  through  it. 
Her  skin  was  thin  and  clear,  and  stretched  tightly  over  the 
delicate  face-bones.  There  was  a  faint  pink  on  the  cheeks. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said,  the  second  time,  when  she  heard 
the  creaking  footsteps  nearer  and  louder.  "  Did  you  find 
the  eggs  ?"  asked  she,  meekly,  when  the  door  opened. 

"  Yes,  I  found  the  eggs,  an'  I  found  somethin'  else.  For 
pity's  sake,  Susan,  what  does  Lawson  mean  by  havin'  so 
many  cats  in  that  barn  ?" 

"  I  know  it.  I've  said  all  I  could  to  have  him  get  rid 
of  some  of 'em." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'd  say,  an'  keep  a-sayin',  till  he  did.  I 
don't  believe  I'm  stretchin'  it  a  mite  when  I  say  I  saw  fifty 
out  there  just  now.  I  hadn't  any  more'n  shut  the  sink-room 
door  before  the  evilest-lookin'  black  cat  I  ever  saw  popped 
its  head  out  of  a  hole  in  the  wall.  Then  I  went  a  few  steps 


332  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

farther,  an'  two  or  three  scud  like  a  whirlwind  right  under 
my  feet.  Much  as  half  a  dozen  flew  out  of  one  corner  when 
I  went  in  to  look  for  eggs.  I  declare  I  thought  they'd 
scratch  my  eyes  out ;  I  was  actually  afraid  of  'em.  They 
were  as  black  as  minks,  and  they  had  the  greenest  eyes ! 
The  barn's  alive  with  'em.  I  don't  see  what  Lawson's 
thinkin'  of." 

"  I  know  there's  a  lot ;  there  was  the  last  of  my  bein' 
about,  when  I  used  to  go  out  there,  an'  I  s'pose  there's 
more  now." 

"Why  don't  Lawson  kill  some  of 'em?" 

"  I've  talked  to  him  about  it  till  I've  got  tired  of  it.  Two 
years  ago  he  did  get  so  far's  to  load  the  gun  one  afternoon 
an'  go  out  in  the  barn.  But  I  listened,  an'  it  didn't  go  off. 
I  guess  he  was  kinder  afraid  on't ;  to  tell  the  truth,  he  don't 
know  much  about  fire-arms." 

"  Well,  if  I  was  a  man,  an'  couldn't  fire  a  gun,  I  wouldn't 
tell  of  it.  I'd  risk  it,  but  I  could  shoot  some  of  them  cats. 
I  guess  my  barn  wouldn't  be  overrun  with  'em  if  I  knew  it." 

Mrs.  Steele  carried  the  eggs  into  the  pantry ;  then  she 
came  back  with  a  resolute  look  on  her  large  face  with  its 
beetling  nose.  "  Where  is  that  gun  ?"  asked  she. 

"Oh,  Mis'  Steele,  you  don't—" 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  have  you  so  overrun  with  cats  if  I  can 
help  it.  If  Lawson  can't  fire  a  gun,  I  can.  The  amount 
of  it  is,  if  one  cat's  killed,  the  rest'll  leave,  and  I'll  risk  it 
but  I  can  hit  one.  I  ain't  afraid  to  try,  anyhow.  Where's 
the  gun  ?" 

Susan  turned  white.     "  Oh,  Mis'  Steele,  don't." 

"Where's  the  gun?" 

"You'll  get  killed.  Oh,  you  will!  you  will!  Don't— 
please  don't." 


AN  UNWILLING  GUEST. 


333 


"  Get  killed !  I  should  laugh.  What  do  you  s'pose  I'm 
goin'  to  do — point  it  at  myself  instead  of  the  cat  ?  Where 
is  it?" 

Mrs.  Steele  stood  in  front  of  the  other  woman,  her  large, 
short-waisted  figure,  in  its  smooth,  shiny  black  silk,  thrown 
back  majestically  on  her  heels,  and  looked  at  her  imperi 
ously. 

Susan  felt  as  if  her  answer  were  a  thread,  and  Mrs.  Steele 
had  a  firm  clutch  on  it,  and  was  pulling  it  surely  out  of  her 
soul.  She  had  to  let  it  go. 

"  It's  in  the  back  chamber,"  said  she.     "  Oh,  don't!'' 

"You  just  sit  still,  an'  not  worry." 

Susan  clutched  the  arms  of  her  chair  with  her  little  bony 
hands,  and  sat  listening.  She  heard  the  footsteps  on  the 
back  stairs,  ascending  and  descending,  then,  after  an  inter 
val  of  agonized  suspense,  the  sharp  report  of  the  gun. 

Her  heart  beat  so  heavily  that  it  made  her  tremble  all 
over.  She  sat  thus,  her  poor  little  house  of  life  all  ajar 
with  the  heavy  working  of  its  enginery,  and  waited.  Two, 
three  minutes  passed,  and  Mrs.  Steele  did  not  come.  Five 
minutes  passed.  Susan  began  to  scream  :  "  Mis'  Steele, 
oh,  Mis'  Steele.  are  you  killed?  Mis'  Steele,  answer  !  Why 
don't  you  answer?  Mis'  Steele,  are  you  killed?  Oh!  oh  ! 
Here  I  am,  an'  can't  stir  a  step ;  p'rhaps  she's  bleedin'  to 
death  out  there.  Oh,  where's  Lawson  ?  Lawson  !  Lawson  ! 
come — come  quick !  Mis'  Steele's  killed  !  Mis'  Steele  ! 
Mis'  Steele !" 

"  Susan  Lawson,  what  are  you  hollerin'  so  for  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Steele,  suddenly.  Susan  had  not  heard  her  enter  amid  her 
frantic  outcries. 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Steele,  you  ain't  killed  ?"  she  said,  faintly. 

"  Killed  ?     I'd  laugh  if  I  couldn't  shoot  a  cat  without  get- 

22 


334  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

tin'  killed.  What  have  you  gone  an'  got  into  such  a  stew 
for?" 

"  You  was  so  long  !" 

"  I  thought  p'rhaps  I'd  get  aim  at  another,  but  I  didn't." 

"  Did  you  kill  one  ?" 

"  I  guess  so.  She  ran,  but  I  guess  she  was  hurt  pretty 
bad." 

Susan  peered  round  at  her.  "  Why,  you  look  awful  white, 
Mis'  Steele.  You  ain't  hurt,  are  you?"  Susan  was  shiver 
ing  now  so  that  she  could  scarcely  speak.  Her  eyes  looked 
wild  ;  her  thin  lips  were  parted,  and  she  panted  between  her 
words. 

"Hurt,  no;  how  should  I  be  hurt?  I've  been  lookin' 
kinder  pale  for  a  few  days,  anyway  ;  quite  a  number's  spoke 
of  it." 

"  Why,  Mis'  Steele,  what's  that  on  your  dress  ?" 

"What?" 

"All  over  the  back  of  it.  Why,  Mis'  Steele,  you're  all 
covered  with  dust.  Where  hev  you  been  ?  Come  up  here, 
an'  let  me  brush  it  off  There's  hay-seed,:  too.  It's  too 
bad — on  this  nice  dress." 

"  Land !  I  guess  'twon't  hurt  it  any.  I  must  ha'  rubbed 
against  something  out  in  the  barn.  That's  enough.  I'm 
goin'  to  put  my  shawl  on,  an'  -that  will  cover  it  up.  I'll 
take  it  off  an'  give  it  a  good  cleanin'  when  I  get  home. 
Come  to  think  it  over,  I  don't  know's  I'd  better  stop  to 
make  that  cake  to-night,  if  you  don't  care  much  about  it. 
I'll  come  over  an'  do  it  to-morrow.  It's  a  little  later  than 
I  thought  for,  an'  I've  got  to  bake  bread  for  supper." 

"  I  wouldn't  stop,  Mis'  Steele.  It  ain't  any  matter  about 
the  cake,  nohow." 

"She  goes  kinder  stiff,"  thought  Susan,  watching  Mrs. 


AN  UNWILLING   GUEST.  335 

Steele  in  her  black  silk  and  cashmere  long  shawl  going  out 
of  the  yard.  "  How  beautiful  an'  green  the  grass  is  gettin' ! 
I'm  thankful  she  wa'n't  hurt." 

In  the  course  of  a  half-hour  Jonas  Lawson,  Susan's  hus 
band,  came  up  from  the  garden,  where  he  had  been  plant 
ing  pease.  The  woman  at  the  window  watched  the  tall,  so 
berly  moving  figure.  The  broad  yard  was  covered  with  the 
most  beautiful  spring  grass,  and  the  dandelions  were  just 
beginning  to  blossom.  Susan  watched  her  husband's  spread 
ing  feet  anxiously.  "There!  he's  stepped  on  that  dande 
lion  ;  I  knew  he  would,"  said  she. 

Lawson  opened  the  door  slowly  and  entered.  "Who 
was  it  fired  a  gun  a  little  while  ago  ?"  said  he.  His  arms 
hung  straight  at  his  sides,  his  long  face  was  deeply  fur 
rowed,  the  furrows  all  running  up  and  down.  He  dropped 
his  lower  jaw  a  good  deal  when  he  spoke,  and  his  straight 
black  beard  seemed  to  elongate. 

"Oh,  Lawson,  it  was  Mis'  Steele.  She  skeered  me  'most 
to  death." 

Lawson  stood  listening  to  the  story.  "  The  gun  kicked, 
most  likely,"  said  he,  soberly,  when  Susan  mentioned  the 
dust  on  Mrs.  Steele's  black  silk.  "  It's  apt  to.  It  ain't  a 
very  safe  gun  ;  I'm  'most  afraid  of  it  myself.  I  reckon  she 
got  knocked  over." 

"  Oh  dear !  do  you  s'pose  it  hurt  her  much,  Lawson  ?" 

"  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  was  pretty  lame  to-mor 
row." 

"  Oh  dear  !  I  wish  she  hadn't  touched  it." 

"  I  heard  the  gun,  an'  I  thought  I'd  come  up  as  soon  as 
I  got  that  row  of  pease  planted,  an'  see  if  there  was  anythin' 
the  matter.  I  knew  you  couldn't  do  nothin'  to  help  your 
self,  if  anybody  was  to  kill  you." 


336  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

Lawson  plodded  about,  getting  tea  ready.  Susan  had 
been  unable  to  walk  for  several  years,  and  all  the  domestic 
duties  had  devolved  upon  him.  She  had  taught  him  how 
to  cook,  and  he  did  fairly  well,  although  he  was  extremely 
slow  and  painstaking.  Susan  had  been  very  quick  herself, 
and  sometimes  it  fretted  her  to  watch  him. 

"  It  took  him  jest  three  hours  and  a  half  to  make  a  pan  of 
ginger-bread  this  mornin',"  she  told  Mrs.  Steele  one  day. 
"  It  was  real  good,  but  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  fly,  seein'  him 
do  it.  He  measured  the  flour  over  ten  times — I  counted." 
She  was  all  of  a  nervous  quiver  telling  it. 

Nobody  knew  the  real  magnitude  of  the  trial  which  the 
poor  vivacious  soul  had  to  bear,  sitting  there  in  her  calico- 
covered  rocker,  with  her  stiff  feet  on  a  little  wooden  stool, 
from  morning  till  night,  day  after  day.  She  fluttered  and 
beat  under  Providence  as  a  bird  would  under  a  man's  hand  ; 
but  she  was  held  down  relentlessly  in  that  chair,  and  would 
be  till  the  beating  and  fluttering  stopped. 

Lawson  turned  her  chair  about,  as  was  the  custom,  that 
she  might  watch  him  preparing  the  meal. 

He  spread  the  cover  on  the  table  and  placed  the  plates  ; 
then  he  was  in  the  pantry  a  long  time  fumbling  about. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Lawson  ?"  Susan  asked,  trying  to 
peer  around  the  corner. 

"I — can't  seem  to  see  the  knives  anywhere.  It's  curi 
ous.  I  allers  put  'em  in  one  place." 

"  Ain't  they  in  the  knife-box  ?" 

"  They — appear  to  be  gone,  box  and  all."  Lawson  spoke 
in  a  tone  of  grave  perplexity,  and  fumbled  on. 

"  Ain't  you  found  'em  yet !" 

"  No,  I — don't  seem  to  see  'em  yet.     It's  curious." 

"Oh  dear !  push  me  in  there,  an'  let  me  see  if  I  can't  see 


AN  UNWILLING   GUEST.  337 

rem.  Mis'  Steele  came  in  here  an'  righted  up  things," 
said  Susan,  after  sitting  in  the  pantry  and  staring  vainly 
at  the  shelves;  "she  must  have  put  'em  somewhere 
else." 

They  spread  their  bread-and-butter  with  Lawson's  jack- 
knife  that  night. 

"Mis'  Steele  means  real  well,"  said  Lawson,  laboring 
with  the  narrow  blade,  "  but  it  seems  as  if  she  kinder  upsets 
things  sometimes." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  hear  a  word  again'  Mis'  Steele.  She 
put  'em  up  somewhere ;  they're  safe  enough." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  no  doubt  of  it,  Susan;  we'll  come  across 
'em.  I  don't  mean  a  thing  again'  Mis'  Steele." 

Lawson,  after  he  had  cleared  away  the  tea  things,  fum 
bled  again  in  the  pantry. 

"What  are  you  huntin'  for  now?"  Susan  called  out. 

"  Nolhin'  but  my  shavin'  things.  I  don't  seem  to  see  'em. 
It's  curious." 

"  Ain't  they  in  the  corner  of  the  top  shelf,  where  they 
allers  are  ?" 

"  I  don't  seem  to  see  'em  there.  I  guess  mebbe  Mis' 
Steele  set  'em  somewhere  else.  It  ain't  no  matter.  I  was 
kinder  thinkin'  of  shavin'  an'  goin'  to  meetin',  but  mebbe 
it's  jest  as  well  I  didn't.  I  feel  kinder  stiff  to-night." 

"  Seems  as  if  you  ought  to  go  to  meetin'.  You're  sure 
they  ain't  right  there  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  'em.  I  guess  Mis'  Steele  must  ha'  put  'em 
up.  Well,  it  don't  make  no  odds." 

Lawson  sat  down  and  read  the  paper. 

The  next  clay  Mrs.  Steele  came  over,  and  revealed  the 
knives  and  the  shaving  apparatus  in  the  top  drawer  of  a 
bureau  in  the  kitchen. 


338  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

"There  wa'n't  nothin'  in  there,"  said  she,  "  an'  I  thought 
you  could  use  it  for  a  kind  of  sideboard." 

That  day  Mrs  Steele  made  the  cup-cake  and  broached 
a  plan. 

"You  be  ready,  Susan,"  said  she,  standing  with  her  bon 
net  and  shawl  on,  taking  leave  ;  "I'm  comin'  over  with  the 
horse  an'  wagon  to-morrow,  to  take  you  to  my  house." ' 

"  Oh,  no,  Mis'  Steele  !" 

"You  needn't  say  a  word.  You're  comin',  an'  you're 
goin'  to  make  me  a  good  long  visit." 

"Oh,  I  can't!" 

"  Can't  ?     I  don't  see  any  reason  why  you  can't." 

"I  can't  leave  Lawson." 

"  Goodness  !  if  Lawson  can't  take  care  of  himself  six 
weeks,  I  should  think  'twas  a  pity." 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Steele,  I  couldn't  stay  six  weeks." 

"  Don't  you  say  another  word  about  it.  I'm  comin'  over 
to-morrow,  an'  you  be  ready." 

"I  couldn't  git  into  the  wagon." 

"  Me  an'  Lawson  can  lift  you  in.  Don't  you  say  a  word. 
You  ain't  goin'  to  sit  in  that  chair  without  any  change  a  day 
longer,  if  I  can  help  it.  You  be  ready." 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Steele." 

But  she  was  out  in  the  yard,  looking  back  at  the  window, 
and  nodding  emphatically. 

When  Lawson  came  in  from  his  planting  he  found  Susan 
crying. 

"What's  the  matter?  ain't  you  feelin'  as  well  as  common 
to-day?"  he  inquired,  with  long-drawn  concern. 

"  Oh,  Lawson,  what  do  you  think  ?  Mis'  Steele's  comin' 
over  with  her  horse  an'  covered  wagon  to-morrow,  an'  take 
me  over  to  her  house,  and  keep  me  six  weeks." 


AN  UNWILLING  GUEST.  339 

"  Don't  you  feel  as  if  you  wanted  to  go  ?"  Lawson  said, 
with  a  look  of  slow  wonder. 

"  I'm  scared  to  death.  You  don't  think  about  it ;  no 
body  thinks  nothin'  about  it :  how  I've  been  sittin'  here  in 
this  house  nigh  on  to  ten  year,  an'  what  an  awful  thing  it 
is  for  me  to  think  of  goin'  out  of  it." 

"  Don't  you  feel  as  if  it  might  do  you  good  ?" 

"Good!  I've  been  lookin'  at  that  grass  out  there.  I 
feel  as  if  I'd  stayed  in  this  house  so  long  that  I'm  rooted,  jest 
as  the  grass  is  in  the  yard.  An'  now  they're  goin'  to  take  me 
up  root  an'  all,  an'  I'm  only  a  poor  little  old  worn-out  wom- 
'an,  an'  I  can't  stan'  it;  I — can't — stan'  it!"  Susan  sobbed 
hysterically. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  I'd  tell  her  I  couldn't  come,  if  I  felt  so 
about  it,"  said  Lawson,  his  face  lengthening,  and  the  long 
furrows  in  it. 

.  "There's  them  lilacs  an'  them  flowerin'  almonds  gettin' 
ready  to  blow  under  the  window  here.  An'  the  yard's 
greener  than  I  ever  see  it  this  time  o'  year." 

"The  grass  round  Mis'  Steele's  place  is  uncommon  for- 
rard ;  I  noticed  it  goin'  by  there  the  other  day." 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  I  care  about  her  grass  ?  You  can't 
git  along  alone,  Lawson,  neither." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  do  well  enough  !    I  can  make  me  some  pies." 

"  Yes,  you  won't  make  a  thing  but  mince-pies,  an'  git 
sick,  I'll  warrant." 

"  I  was  calculatin'  to  make  some  apple-pies." 

"Mis'  Steele  made  some  cup-cake  to-day,  an'  I  expect 
nothin'  but  that  '11  make  you  sick,  now  I'm  goin'  away.  It's 
rich.  She  put'a  cup  of  butter  and  two  whole  cups  of  sugar 
in  it.  I  didn't  know  how  to  have  her,  butter's  so  high,  but 
I  couldn't  say  nothin'.  She  was  real  good  to  do  it." 


340  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

In  the  night  Susan  aroused  Lawson  ;  she  had  thought  of 
another  tribulation  connected  with  her  prospective  visit. 

"  Lawson,"  said  she,  "  I've  thought  of  somethin'  else.  I 
can't  go,  nohow." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Lawson,  with  his  usual  steady  grav 
ity — not  even  his  sudden  awakening  could  alter  that. 

"  I  ain't  got  a  bonnet  that's  fit  to  wear.  I  ain't  been  out 
to  meetin'  for  ten  year,  you  know ;  an'  I  ain't  hed  a  sign 
of  a  bonnet  for  all  that  time." 

"  Is  the  one  you  hed  when  you  was  taken  sick  worn-  out  ?" 

"  Worn  out  ?  No  ;  but  it  don't  look  nothin'  like  the  bon 
nets  they  wear  nowadays.  It's  as  flat  as  a  saucer,  an'  Mis' 
Steele's  is  high  in  front  as  a  steeple.  I  ain't  goin'  to  ride 
through  the  town  in  such  a  lookin'  thing.  I've  got  some 
pride  left." 

But  for  all  poor  Susan  Lawson's  little  feminine  pride  con 
cerning  attire,  for  all  her  valid  excuses  and  her  tearful, 
sleepless  night,  she  went.  She  tied  on  nervously  the  flat 
Neapolitan  bonnet,  with  its  little  tuft  of  feathery  green  grass, 
which  had  flourished  bravely  in  some  old  millinery  spring; 
the  strings  also  were  grass  green. 

Lawson  and  Mrs.  Steele  carried  her  out  between  them  in 
her  chair.  Poor  Susan  in  her  old  bonnet,  coming  out  into  the 
sweet  spring  world,  was  like  the  feeble  blossoming  of  some 
ancient  rose  which  had  missed  the  full  glory  of  the  resur 
rection.  The  spring,  which  one  thinks  of  as  an  angel,  was 
the  same,  but  the  rose  and  the  old  woman  were  different. 
The  old  woman  felt  the  difference,  if  the  rose  did  not. 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  ain't  what  I  used  to  be,"  she  groaned,  as 
they  hoisted  her,  all  trembling  with  fear,  into  the  wagon. 
"  I  can't  do  as  I  used  to,  an'  my  bonnet  is  all  behind  the 
times." 


AN  UNWILLING   GUEST.  34! 

Mrs.  Steele's  vehicle  was  a  "covered  wagon."  There 
was  no  opening  except  in  front ;  the  black  curtains  but 
toned  closely  over  the  back  and  sides.  Susan  sat,  every 
nerve  rigid,  on  the  glossy  back  seat,  and  clutched  the  one 
in  front  firmly.  Mrs.  Steele  sat  there  driving  in  a  master 
ly  way,  holding  the  lines  high  and  taut,  her  shoulders  thrown 
back.  The  horse  had  been,  though  he  was  not  now,  a 
spirited  animal. 

Years  ago  a  long  stable  at  the  right  of  Mrs.  Steele's  house 
had  been  well  filled  with  horses.  Mr.  Steele  had  been  an 
extensive  dealer  in  them,  and  had  thus  acquired  the  wealth 
which  his  widow  now  enjoyed.  She  had  always  been  well 
conversant  with  her  husband's  business,  and  now  she  liked 
to  talk  wisely  about  horses,  though  she  had  only  one  of  their 
noble  stock  left. 

"  Ain't  you  afraid,  Mis'  Steele  ?"  Susan  kept  asking, 
nervously. 

"Afraid!  Why,  I've  drove  this  horse  ever  since  John 
died." 

"Then  you're  used  to  him  ?" 

"  I  should  hope  I  was.  He's  rather  smart,  but  he's  a 
pretty  fair  horse.  He's  been  a  little  lame  lately,  but  he's 
gettin'  over  it  all  right.  He  interfered  goin'  down  that 
steep  hill  by  Sam  Basset's  one  time,  last  February,  an'  hurt 
him.  Two  year  ago  I  thought  he  had  a  spavin,  but  it  didn't 
amount  to  nothin'.  John  always  thought  a  good  deal  of  this 
horse ;  he  valued  him  pretty  high." 

Susan  looked  with  her  wide,  wondering  eyes  at  a  small 
galled  spot  on  the  horse's  back,  and  thought  innocently  that 
that  was  the  fraudulent  spavin. 

She  watched  timorously  every  motion  of  the  animal,  and 
felt  such  a  glad  sense  of  safety  that  she  did  not  repine,  as 


342  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

she  had  expected,  when  she  was  carried  over  Mrs.  Steele's 
threshold  by  Mrs.  Steele  and  her  hired  man. 

But  the  repining  came.  Susan  was  quite  prostrated  from 
her  unusual  exertion,  and  had  to  lie  in  bed  for  several  days. 
Stretched  out  there  in  Mrs.  Steele's  unfamiliar  bedroom, 
staring  at  the  unfamiliar  walls,  that  terrible,  anticipated 
home-sickness  attacked  her. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  ain't  grateful,"  she  told  Mrs. 
Steele,  who  found  her  crying  one  day,  "but  I  do  kinder 
wish,  if  I'm  goin'  to  be  sick,  that  I  was  to  home  in  my  own 
bed." 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  be  sick,"  pronounced  Mrs.  Steele, 
with  cheerful  alacrity ;  "  an'  if  you  was,  you're  a  good  deal 
better  off  here." 

In  a  few  days  Susan  was  able  to  sit  up.  Mrs.  Steele  ar 
ranged  her  complacently  in  a  stuffed  easy-chair  beside  her 
sitting-room  window. 

i  "There,  Harrison,"  she  told  her  hired  man  that  night, 
"  that  poor  soul  in  there  is  goin'  to  take  a  little  comfort  for 
a  few  weeks,  if  I  can  bring  it  about." 

Harrison  Adams,  the  hired  man,  had  come  into  the  ser 
vice  of  the  Steeles  in  his  boyhood.  Now  he  was  married, 
and  lived  at  a  short  distance ;  but  he  still  carried  on  the 
farm  for  Mrs.  Steele.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  live  idly. 
She  could  not  deal  in  horses,  but  she  could  make  a  few  acres 
profitable,  and  she  did. 

This  man  was  all  the  servant  she  kept.  She  managed 
her  house  herself.  She  was  a  fine  cook,  and  Susan,  during 
her  visit,  could  complain  of  no  lack  of  good  living.  The 
house  was  comfortable,  too  ;  indeed,  it  was  grand  compared 
with  the  guest's  own  domicile. 

But  all  this  made  no  impression  on  Susan.     The  truth 


AN  UNWILLING  GUEST.  343 

was  that  she  had  become  so  accustomed  to  her  own  poor  lit 
tle  pebbles,  and  loved  them  so,  that  she  thought  they  were 
diamonds. 

Seated  there  in  Mrs.  Steele's  soft  easy-chair,  she  would 
sigh  regretfully  for  her  hard  creaking  rocker  at  home.  She 
tasted  Mrs.  Steele's  rich  food,  and  longed  for  some  of  Law- 
son's  cooking.  She  looked  out  of  that  pleasant  front  win 
dow  on  the  broad  road,  with  the  spring  garlands  flinging 
over  it  and  the  people  passing,  and  muttered,  "  It  ain't  half 
so  pleasant  as  my  window  to  home."  Mrs.  Steele's  fine 
sitting-room,  with  its  brave  Brussels  and  its  springy  hair 
cloth,  what  was  it  to  her  own  beloved  kitchen,  with  the 
bureau  in  the  corner,  the  table  and  stove  and  yellow  chairs, 
and  its  voice — the  clock  ? 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  six  weeks  were  up, 
Susan  woke  in  a  tumult  of  joyful  anticipation.  Nothing  was 
said,  but  she  supposed  that  her  going  home  that  day  wassail 
understood  thing.  So,  after  breakfast,  she  sat  waiting  for 
her  hostess  to  mention  it.  Mrs.  Steele  was  busy  in  the 
kitchen  all  the  morning,  the  sweet,  rich  smell  of  baking 
cake  floated  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Mebbe  she  thinks  we'd  better  not  go  till  afternoon  ;  she 
seems  pretty  busy,"  Susan  thought,  patiently. 

But  when  the  afternoon  was  spinning  out,  and  Mrs.  Steele 
sat  sewing  and  said  nothing,  Susan's  heart  sank. 
.    "  Mis'  Steele,"  she  said,  timidly,  "  don't  you  think  we'd  bet 
ter  go  before  much  later  ?   I'm  afraid  it  '11  be  growin'  damp." 

"  Go  where  ?" 

"  Why,  go  home." 

"  Go  home  ?" 

"Why,  I  thought  I  was  goin'  home  to-day;  it's  six  weeks 
since  I  came." 


344 


AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 


"Oh,  you  ain't  goiri'  home  yet  a  while;  you're  goin'  to 
stay  till  you  get  better.  Your  visit  ain't  half  out  yet." 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Steele,  you're  real  good,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  must 
git  home." 

"  Now,  Susan  Lawson,  I  should  like  to  know  what  earth 
ly  reason  you  have  for  wantin'  to  go  home.  You  can't  do 
nothin'  when  you  get  there." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I'd  oughter  get  home.  I've  left  Lawson  a 
long  spell  now." 

"  Nonsense  ! — a  man  that  can  cook  as  well  as  he  can  !" 

"  He  won't  make  nothin'  but  mince-pies,  an'  get  sick." 

"  I  didn't  see  but  he  looked  well  enough  when  he  was 
here  last  week.  You  ain't  goin',  so  don't  you  say  another 
word  about  it.  You're  goin'  to  stay  here,  where  you  can  be 
took  care  of  an'  have  things  as  you'd  ought  to." 

"You're  real  good,"  Mis'  Steele. 

Susan  turned  her  face  towards  the  window.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  the  trees  all  wavering,  the 
grassy  front  yard  seemed  to  undulate. 

Mrs.  Steele  watched  her  sharply.  "I  declare  I'm  'most 
mad  with  her  !"  she  said  to  herself  when  she  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  get  tea.  "  Seems  as  if  anybody  might  know 
when  they  was  well  off." 

June  came,  and  poor  Susan  Lawson  still  visited.  Her 
timid  entreaties  and  mild  protests  had  availed  nothing 
against  Mrs.  Steele's  determined  kindness.  Once  she  had 
appealed  to  Lawson,  but  that  had  been  fruitless. 

"  She  doesn't  want  to  go,"  Mrs.  Steele  had  assured  him, 
following  him  to  the  door.  "  She'll  be  all  off  the  notion  of 
it  to-morrow.  Don't  you  do  nothin'  about  it." 

"Well,  jest  as  you  say,  Mis'  Steele,"  Lawson  had  replied, 
and  gone  home  undisturbedly  and  eaten  his  solitary  pie  for 
tea. 


AN  UNWILLING  GUEST.  345 

In  the  second  week  of  June,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  Susan 
was  all  alone  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Steele  had  gone  to  church. 
It  was  a  lovely  day.  The  June  roses  were  in  blossom  ; 
there  were  clumps  of  them  in  the  front  yard.  Susan,  at 
her  window,  poked  her  head  out  into  the  sweet  air,  and 
stared  about. 

This  poor  old  troubled  face  at  the  window,  and  the  beau 
tiful  day  armed  against  grief  with  roses  and  honey  and 
songs,  confronted  each  other. 

Then  the  old  woman  began  complaining,  as  if  to  the 
other. 

"  Oh,"  she  muttered,  "  there's  roses  and  everything.  It's 
summer,  an'  I  ain't  to  home  yet.  I'm  a  poor  old  woman, 
that's  what  I  am — a  poor  old  woman  with  a  longin'  to  get 
home,  an'  no  legs.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Oh  dear  !  oh 
dear  me !"  * 

Harrison  Adams  came  strolling  up  the  road.  He  was 
not  a  constant  church-goer.  Susan  eyed  his  swinging 
arms  in  their  clean  white  Sunday  shirt-sleeves,  and  his  dark 
red  face  with  its  sun-bleached  blond  mustache. 

"  Harrison  !"  she  called.  Her  voice  quavered  out  shrilly. 
"Won't  you  please  come  up  to  the  window  a  minute?"  she 
cried  out  again,  when  he  stopped  and  looked  around  in 
quiringly. 

"  Anything  wrong  ?"  he  asked,  standing  under  the  window 
and  smiling. 

"  I  want  you  to  harness  up  an'  take  me  home." 

"  Why,  Mis'  Steele's  got  the  horse,"  the  young  man  said, 
staring  at  her. 

"  Can't  you  git  one  somewhere — can't  you  ?" 

"  Why,  Mis'  Steele  '11  carry  you  when  she  gets  home. 
'Twon't  be  more'n  half  an  hour." 


346  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

"  No,  she  won't — she  won't !"  Susan's  voice  rose  into  a 
wail.  "  She  won't ;  an'  I  want  to  go  home." 

"Why,  she  would  if  you  asked  her  —  wouldn't  she?" 
Harrison  looked  at  her  apprehensively.  He  began  to  think 
there  was  something  wrong  with  her  head, 

"  I've  asked  an'  asked  her." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  it  was  pretty  work  if  she  wouldn't 
let  you  go  home  when  you  wanted  to." 

"Mis'  Steele  means  all  right.  I  ain't  goin'  to  hear  a 
word  again'  her.  She's  done  everything  for  me,  an'  more, 
too  ;  but  she  don't  know  how  gold  ain't  yaller  an'  honey 
ain't  sweet  when  anybody's  away  from  home  and  wantin'  to 
be  there.  She  means  all  right." 

"  Well,  I  don'  know  but  she  does ;  but  it  seems  pretty 
hard  lines  if  you  can't  go  home  when  you  want  to,"  said  the 
.young  fellow,  growing  indignant  and  sympathetic. 

"  Can't  you  git  me  home  somehow  ?  I've  got  to  git 
home  j  I  can't  stan'  it  any  longer.  It  seems  as  if  I  should 
die."  She  began  sobbing. 

Harrison  stood  looking  at  her ;  her  little  frail,  quiver 
ing  shoulders,  her  head  with  its  thin,  yellow-gray  hair,  her 
narrow,  knotty  hands,  which  covered  her  poor  weeping  face, 
her  peaked  elbows,  which  seemed  pricking  through  the 
sleeves,  those  pitiful,  stiff,  helpless  feet  on  the  cricket.  Be 
fore  this  young  man,  with  all  his  nerves  and  muscles,  all 
his  body-servants  ready  to  obey  joyfully  and  strongly  his 
commands,  this  woman  seemed  like  a  little  appealing  skele 
ton,  who,  deprived  of  her  own  physical  powers,  and  left 
stranded  in  an  element  where  they  were  necessary,  besought 
the  assistance  of  his. 

"I  don'  know,"  said  he.  "I'm  perfectly  willin'  to  carry 
you  home,  if  we  can  fix  it.  But  you  see  the  horse  is  gone." 


AN  UNWILLING   GUEST.  347 

"Ain't  there  another  you  can  git?" 

"Nobody's  but  White's  over  there.  They've  gone  to 
meetin',  but  I  can  get  into  the  barn,  I  guess.  But  I  don' 
know  'bout  takin'  you  with  him.  He's  an  awful  smart 
horse,  jumpin'  at  everything.  They  don't  drive  him  to 
meetin'  because  the  women-folks  are  so  scared  of  him.  He 
ran  away  last  spring,  an'  one  of  the  boys  was  throwed  out 
an'  had  his  arm  broke.  I  ain't  afraid  but  what  I  can  hold 
him,  but  you  might  get  uneasy." 

"  I  ain't  afraid.     Harness  him  up  quick." 

"Well,  I'll  do  just  as  you  say.  I  can  hold  him  fast 
enough,  an'  there  ain't  any  danger  really.  I'll  go  an'  see  if 
I  can  get  into  the  barn." 

"Hurry,  or  she'll  be  home." 

That  black,  plunging  horse  had  to  be  securely  tied  to  the 
stone  post  while  Harrison  lifted  Susan  in.  Then  he  un 
fastened  him,  and  sprang  for  his  life  to  the  seat.  Then  they 
flew. 

"  Don't  you  be  afraid,  Mis'  Lawson,"  said  Harrison,  the 
veins  swelling  out  on  his  forehead,  his  extended  arms  like 
steel.  "  I  can  hold  him." 

"  I  ain't  afraid."  • 

Harrison  glanced  at  her.  That  old  wasted  face  looked 
above  fear.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  ahead,  and  rapt. 

"  You're  pretty  spunky,"  said  he. 

"  I've  allers  been  scared  of  horses,  but  I'm  goin'  home 
now,  an'  I  don't  care  for  nothin'  else." 

The  horse  was  somewhat  subdued  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  Lawson  place. 

Susan  gave  a  cry  of  rapture  when  they  came  in  sight  of 
it.  Then  she  leaned  forward  and  looked.  Just  a  low, 
poorly  kept  cottage,  with  a  grassy  yard  sloping  to  the  road 


348  AN  UNWILLING   GUEST. 

to  the  ordinary  eye  ;  but  no  one  knew,  no  mortal  could 
ever  know,  what  that  poor  homesick  soul  saw  there. 

As  they  drove  into  the  yard  one  of  the  black  cats  peered 
around  the  open  door  of  the  barn  ;  her  wild  green  eyes 
shone. 

"  How  bright  that  cat  looks  !"  said  Susan,  admiringly. 

Presently  Lawson  opened  the  side  door.  He  had  an 
apron  on,  and  his  hands  were  white  with  flour. 

"  Oh,  Lawson,  I've  got  home !" 

"  I  was  jest  makin'  a  few  apple-pies,"  said  he,  going  out 
to  the  buggy.  "  I  don't  calculate  to  do  such  things  Sun 
day,  but  I  was  drove  yesterday,  hayin',  an'  I  got  short.  How 
do  you  do,  Susan  ?" 

When  Susan  was  safely  in  the  kitchen,  seated  in  her  old 
beloved  chair,  she  leaned  her  head  back,  and  closed  her 
eyes  with  a  happy  sigh.  "Oh!"  she  said,  "I  'ain't  never 
set  in  a  chair  so  easy  as  this !" 

Lawson  stood  looking  uneasily  at  a  bowl  on  the  table. 
"  I  reckon  I'll  set  this  up,"  said  he ;  "  it's  a  little  mince 
meat  I  had.  I  brought  it  out,  but  I  didn't  really  think  I'd 
use  it;  I  thought  I'd  make  a  few  apple-pies." 

"  I'd  make  the  mince  ones,  Lawsoh ;  I  guess  they'd 
taste  good.  You  need  somethin'  hearty  whilst  you're 
hayin'." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  would  be  a  good  idea  for  me  to." 

"  Lawson,  them  cherry-trees  out  in  front  of  the  house  are 
loaded  with  cherries,  ain't  they  ?" 

Lawson  stared  at  her.  "  There  ain't  a  cherry  on  'em 
this  year,"  said  he  ;  "  I've  been  wonderin'  what  ailed  'em. 
Porter  thinks  it's  that  frost  we  had,  when  they  were  blowed 
out." 

"You'd  better  go  an'  look  again  by  and  by.     I  guess 


AN  UNWILLING   GUEST.  349 

you  didn't  look  very  sharp ;  the  trees  was  red  with  'em. 

Them  blush-roses  is  beautiful,  too." 

"  Why,  there  ain't  one  rose  on  the  bushes." 
"  I  rather  guess  I  know  when  I  see  'em,," 

23 


A   SOUVENIR. 

"NANCY,  why  don't  you  show  Paulina  that?" 

"  Now,  Charlotte,  it  ain't  worth  showing." 

"  Now  do  show  me  what  it  is  :  you've  got  my  curiosity 
all  roused  up,"  said  Paulina.  She  cocked  up  her  face  at 
the  other  two  women,  who  were  taller.  She  was  very  small 
and  lean  ;  she  wore  her  black  hair  heavily  frizzed,  and  had 
on  a  fine  black  silk  dress,  and  a  lace  bonnet  with  some 
red  flowers.  Charlotte,  otherwise  Mrs.  Steaclman,  was 
very  proud  to  take  her  about,  she  was  so  airy  and  well 
dressed.  She  was  Mrs.  Jerome  Loomis,  an  out-of-town 
lady,  a  cousin  of  her  late  husband's,  who  was  visiting  her 
for  a  few  days.  She  had  taken  her  over  to  call  on  her 
sister  Nancy,  Mrs.  Weeks,  this  afternoon.  She  herself  had 
on  nothing  better  than  a  plain  black-and-white  checked 
gingham  ;  it  was  a  warm  afternoon,  but  she  had  realized 
keenly  her  reflected  grandeur  as  she  had  walked  up  the 
street  with  her  well-dressed  guest.  She  was  a  tall,  spare 
woman,  and  usually  walked  with  a  nervous  stride,  but  to 
day,  all  unconsciously,  she  nipped,  and  teetered,  and  swung 
her  limp  gingham  skirts  with  just  the  same  air  that  Paulina 
did  her  black  silk  one.  It  was  a  nervous  imitation.  Mrs. 
Steadman  was  incapable  of  anything  else  :_she_was  nqtji 
weak  woman.  Her  mind,  being  impressed,  simply  produced 


A   SOUVENIR.  351 

a  reflex  action  in  her  body.  She  would  have  despised  her 
self  if  she  had  known  it,  because  of  the  very  pride  which 
led  her  into  it. 

The  call  had  been  made,  and  the  three  women  were 
standing  in  Mrs.  Weeks's  entry  taking  leave. 

Paulina  went  on,  coaxingly :  "  Now  do  show  it  to  me. 
What  is  it  ?  I  know  it  is  something  beautiful,  or  your  sis 
ter  wouldn't  have  said  anything  about  it." 

Paulina  had  a  protruding  upper  jaw,  and  when  she  smiled 
her  mouth  stretched  far  back.  She  smiled  a  good  deal 
when  she  talked.  She  jerked  her  head  too,  and  moved  her 
eyes.  She  affected  a  snapping  vivacity  of  manner,  or  else 
she  had  it  naturally.  She  did  not  know  which  it  was  her- 
jself,  but  she  admired  it  in  herself. 

Mrs.  Weeks,  who  looked  a  deal  like  her  sister,  except  that 
she  was  paler,  and  her  hair  was  grayer,  and  she  wore  spec 
tacles,  colored  up  faintly. 

"Tain't  worth  seein',"  said  she,  deprecatingly ;  "but  as 
long's  Charlotte's  spoke  of  it,  I  don't  mind  showin'  it  to  you." 

Then  she  opened  the  door  opposite  the  sitting-room,  and 
with  an  air  at  once  solemn  and  embarrassed,  motioned  her 
callers  to  precede  her. 

Paulina  bobbed  her  head  about  engagingly.  "Dear  me, 
which  is  it?  There  are  so  many  pretty  things  here  I  never 
could  tell  which  you  meant." 

Mrs.  Weeks  was  innocently  proud  of  her  best  parlor. 
She  had  so  much  faith  in  its  grandeur  that  she  was  almost 
afraid  of  it  herself.  Every  time  she  opened  the  door  its 
glories  smote  her  freshly,  and  caused  her  to  thrill  with  awe 
and  delight.  Until  the  last  two  years  she  had  been  used 
to  the  commonest  and  poorest  things  in  the  way  of  furni 
ture  ;  indeed,  this  parlor  had  not  been  finished  and  plas- 


352  A   SOUVENIR. 

tered  till  lately.  To  have  it  completed  and  furnished  had 
been  the  principal  longing  of  her  life ;  now  it  was  accom 
plished  by  dint  of  the  closest  work  and  economy ;  it  was 
the  perfect  flower,  as  it  were,  of  all  her  wishes  and  fancies. 
When  she  had  her  parlor  she  had  always  meant  to  have 
something  good,  she  had  said,  and  now  it  was  superlatively 
good  to  her  simple  eyes.  There  was  a  gilded  paper  on  the 
walls,  and  a  Brussels  carpet  with  an  enormous  flower  pat 
tern  on  the  floor.  The  furniture  was  covered  with  red  plush 
— everybody  else  in  town  had  hair-cloth,  plush  was  magmfi- 
cent  audacity.  Every  chair  had  a  tidy  on  its  back ;  there 
was  a  very  large  ruffled  lamp-mat  for  the  marble-top  table ; 
there  were  mats  for  the  vases  on  the  shelf,  and  there  was  a 
beautiful  rug  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 

Paulina  darted  towards  it,  her  silk  and  her  stiff  white 
skirt  rattling.  "Is  this  it?" 

"  This?  said  Mrs.  Steadman,  pointing  impressively  at  the 
wall. 

"Oh!  Why,  Mrs.  Weeks,  where  did  you  get  it?  who 
matfe  it  ?" 

"She  made  it,"  said  her  sister;  "an'  she  wa'n't  long 
about  it  either." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  it !  How  could  you  ever  have 
had  the  patience  ?  All  those  little  fine,  beautiful  flowers 
are  made  of — " 

"Hair.  Yes,  every  one  of  'em.  Jest  look  close.  Thar's 
rose-buds,  an'  lilies,  an'  pansies,  an'  poppies,  an'  acorns,  be 
sides  the  leaves." 

"  I  see.  Oh,  that  dear  little  rose-bud  in  that  corner  made 
out  of  sandy  hair  !  And  that  acorn  is  so  natural !  and  that 
sprig  of  ivy  !  Mrs.  Weeks,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  such 
things." 


A  SOUVENIR.  353 

Even  Nancy  Weeks's  mild  nature  could  not  hinder  her 
from  straightening  herself  up  a  little  out  of  mere  self-respect 
as  she  gazed  at  her  intricate  handiwork  with  her  admiring 
guests. 

"  I  made  the  whole  wreath,"  said  she,  "  out  of  my  folks' 
hair — out  of  the  Wilsons' — Charlotte  an'  me  was  Wilsons, 
you  know.  I  had  a  good  many  locks  of  'em  'way  back.  I 
had  some  of  my  great-grandmother's  hair,  an'  my  grand 
mother's.  That  little  forget-me-not  in  the  corner's  made 
out  of  my  great-grandmother's — I  didn't  hev  much  of  that 
— an'  that  lily's  grandmother's.  She  was  a  light-favored 
woman,  an'  her  hair  turned  a  queer  kind  of  a  yeller-gray. 
I  had  a  great  piece  of  it  mother  cut  off  after  she  died.  It 
worked  in  real  pretty.  Then  I  had  a  lot  of  my  mother's, 
an'  some  of  my  sister's  that  died,  an'  a  child's  that  mother 
lost  when  he  was  a  baby,  and  a  little  of  my  uncle  Solomon 
White's,  mother's  brother's,  an'  some  of  my  father's.  Then 
thar's  some  of  the  little  boy's  that  Charlotte  lost." 

"They're  all  dead  whose  hair  is  in  it?"  said  Paulina, 
with  awed  and  admiring  interest. 

Nancy  looked  at  her  sister. 

"  Well,  thar's  one  in  it  that  ain't  dead,"  said  Charlotte, 
hesitatingly,  returning  her  sister's  look.  "  Nancy  wanted 
some  hair  that  color  dreadfully.  None  of  the  Wilsons'  was 
sandy.  That  reddish  rose-bud  you  spoke  of  was  made  out 
of  it." 

"\Vhose  was  it?"  asked  Paulina,  curiously. 

"  Oh,  well— somebody's." 

"  Well,"  said  Paulina,  with  a  sigh,  "it's  beautiful,  and  it 
must  have  been  a  sight  of  work.  I  don't  see  how  you  ever 
had  the  patience  to  do  it.  You're  a  wonderful  woman." 

"  Oh,  no  !    It  wa'n't  so  very  much  to  do  after  you  got  at  it." 


354  A   SOUVENIR. 

"  It's  such  an  ornament,  and  apart  from  that  it  must  be 
such  a  comfort  to  you  to  have  it." 

"That's  what  I  tell  Nancy.  Of  course  it  makes  a  hand 
some  picture  to  hang  on  the  wall.  But  I  should  think  full 
as  much  of  keepin'  the  hair  so ;  it's  such  a  nice  way." 

"That  oval  frame  is  elegant,  too." 

After  her  callers  had  gone,  Nancy,  with  simple  pleasure 
and  self-gratulation,  thought  over  what  they  had  said.  This 
innocent,  narrow-minded,  middle-aged  woman  felt  as  much 
throbbing  wonder  and  delight  over  her  hair  wreath  as  any 
genius  over  one  of  his  creations.  As  far  as  happiness  of 
that  kind  went  she  was  just  as  well  off  as  a  Michael  Angelo 
or  a  Turner;  and  as  far  as  anything  else,  she  was  just  as 
good  a  woman  for  believing  in  hair  wreaths. 

She  had  toiled  hard  over  this  one  ;  seemingly,  nothing 
but  true  artistic  instinct,  and  delight  in  work,  could  have 
urged  her  on.  It  was  exceedingly  slow,  nervous  work,  and 
she  was  a  very  delicate  woman.  Many  a  night  she  had 
lain  awake  with  her  tired  brain  weaving  the  hair  roses  and 
lilies  which  her  fingers  had  laid  dowri. 

Paulina  spoke  to  Charlotte  on  their  way  home  about  her 
sister's  looking  so  frail. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Charlotte.  "  Nancy  never  had  any 
backbone,  an'  she's  worked  awful  hard.  I  s'pose  it's  more'n 
she  ought  to  do,  makin'  all  those  fancy  fixin's ;  but  she's 
crazy  to  do  'em,  can't  seem  to  let  'em  alone ;  an'  she  does 
have  a  real  knack  at  it." 

"That  hair  wreath  was  beautiful,"  assented  the  other; 
"but  I  should  have  been  afraid  it  would  have  worn  on  her." 

When  they  got  home,  Mrs.  Steadman's  daughter  Emme- 
line  had  tea  ready.  She  was  a  capable  young  woman ;  she 
took  in  dressmaking,  and  supported  herself  and  mother,  and 


A   SOUVENIR.  355 

had  all  she  could  do.  She  was  rather  pretty ;  tall  and 
slender  like  her  mother ;  with  a  round  face,  and  a  mouth 
with  an  odd,  firm  pucker  to  it  when  she  talked,  that  stran 
gers  took  for  a  smile  ;  she  had  very  rosy  cheeks. 

There  was  a  prayer-meeting  in  the  church  vestry  that 
evening,  and  after  tea  Mrs.  Steadman  proposed  going,  with 
her  company  and  her  daughter.  Emmeline  demurred  a 
little.  She  guessed  she  wouldn't  go,  she  said. 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  her  mother,  sharply.  She  still  kept 
a  tight  rein  over  this  steady,  dutiful  daughter  of  hers.  "  You 
don't  expect  anybody  to-night?" 

Her  mother  said  "anybody"  with  a  regard  for  secrecy; 
she  meant  Andrew  Stodclard. 

Emmeline  colored  very  red.  "No,  I  don't,"  she  said, 
quickly  ;  "  I'll  go."  She  was  not  engaged  to  the  young 
man,  and  felt  sensitive.  It  seemed  to  her  if  she  should  stay 
at  home  for  him,  and  he  should  not  come,  and  her  mother 
and  her  cousin  should  suspect  her  of  it,  she  could  not  bear 
it ;  besides,  she  did  not  really  expect  him  ;  there  was  noth 
ing  but  the  chance  he  might  come  to  keep  her.  So  she  put 
on  her  hat,  and  went  to  the  meeting  with  her  mother  and 
Mrs.  Loomis. 

She  wondered  when  she  got  home  if  he  had  been  there, 
but  there  was  no  way  of  finding  out.  He  had  to  drive  from 
a  town  six  miles  farther  up  the  river  to  see  her.  He  was 
the  son  of  the  country  storekeeper  there,  and  acted  himself 
as  head  clerk.  He  was  a  steady,  fine-looking  young  man, 
though  he  had  the  name  of  being  rather  fiery-tempered. 
People  thought  he  was  a  great  catch  for  Emmeline.  He 
had  been  to  see  her  some  six  weeks  now.  She  hoped  he 
would  ask  her  to  marry  him  :  she  could  not  help  it;  for  she 
had  grown  fond  of  him. 


356  A  SOUVENIR. 

Her  mother  was  sure  that  he  would — in  fact,  she  hardly 
knew  but  he  had.  Emmeline  herself  was  not  so  sure  ;  she 
had  never  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  herself,  and  was  more 
certain  of  her  own  loving  than  she  was  of  anybody  else's. 

When  Sunday  night  came  she  stayed  at  home  from  meet 
ing,  without  any  comment  from  her  mother,  who  put  on  her 
best  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  went  alone.  Paulina  Loomis 
had  gone  home  the  day  before. 

Emmeline  had  put  the  little  front  room,  which  served 
alike  as  dressmaker's  shop  and  parlor,  in  the  nicest  order. 
It  was  a  poor  little  place,  anyway.  There  was  a  worn  rag- 
carpet,  some  cane -seated  chairs,  and  one  black  wooden 
rocker  covered  with  chintz.  An  old-fashioned  bureau  stood 
against  the  wall ;  and  of  a  week-day  a  mahogany  card-table, 
made  square  by  having  its  two  leaves  up,  was  in  the  centre 
of  the  room.  Emmeline  used  this  last  for  cutting. 

To-day  she  had  put  down  the  leaves,  and  moved  it  back 
against  the  wall,  between  the  two  front  windows.  Then  she 
had  got  the  best  lamp  out  of  the  closet,  and  set  it  on  the  ta 
ble.  It  was  a  new  lamp,  with  a  pretty  figured  globe,  one  she 
had  bought  since  Andrew  began  coming  to  see  her.  She 
had  picked  a  bunch  of  flowers  out  in  her  garden,  too,  and  ar 
ranged  them  in  a  gilt-and-white  china  vase,  and  set  it  be 
side  the  lamp.  There  were  balsams,  and  phlox,  and  lark 
spur,  and  pinks,  and  some  asparagus  for  green.  She  had 
tucked  all  her  work  and  her  patterns  out  of  sight  in  the 
bureau  drawers,  swept  and  dusted,  and  got  out  a  tidy  to  pin 
on  the  rocking-chair.  Then  she  had  put  on  her  best  dress, 
and  sat  down  to  wait.  She  thought,  perhaps,  he  would 
come  before  her  mother  went  to  church ;  but  he  did  not.  So 
she  sat  there  alone  in  the  fading  light,  waiting.  Every  time 
she  heard  a  team  coming,  she  thought  it  was  his;  but  it 


A  SOUVENIR.  357 

would  roll  past,  and  her  heart  would  sink.  At  last  the  peo 
ple  began  to  flock  home  from  meeting,  and  her  mother's 
tall,  stooping,  black  figure  came  in  through  the  gate.  She 
thought  Andrew  was  there,  so  she  went  straight  through  the 
long  narrow  entry  to  the  kitchen  ;  Emmeline  knew  why  she 
did.  After  a  while  she  opened  the  door  from  the  kitchen 
cautiously,  and  peered  into  the  dark  room  :  she  had  a  lamp 
out  there. 

"There's  nobody  in  here;  mother,"  said  Emmeline  j  "3^011 
needn't  be  afraid." 

"  Didn't  he  come  ?     I  thought  I  didn't  hear  any  talkin'." 

"  No  ;  nobody's  been  here." 

"  Why,  I  wonder  what's  the  reason  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  there's  some  good  one,"  replied  Emmeline, 
puckering  up  her  lips  firmly.  "  I'm  tired  j  I  guess  I'll  go 
to  bed." 

If  she  felt  badly  she  did  not  show  it,  except  by  her  si 
lence  at  her  mother's  wondering  remarks;  but  she  had  al 
ways  been  very  reticent  about  Andrew,  not  often  speaking 
his  name.  She  did  not  cry  any  after  she  went  to  bed — in 
deed,  she  could  not,  for  her  mother  slept  with  her ;  her  fa 
ther  was  dead. 

The  weeks  went  on,  and  Emmeline  got  ready  for  Andrew 
a  good  many  times,  half- surreptitiously.  She  would  put 
sundry  little  ornamental  touches  to  the  room,  or  herself, 
hoping  her  mother  would  not  observe  them  ;  but  he  never 
came.  The  neighbors  began  to  notice  it,  and  to  throw  out 
various  hints  and  insinuations  to  Mrs.  Steadman.  They 
never  said  anything  to  Emmeline.  She  was  so  still,  they 
did  not  dare  to.  Her  mother  met  them  frostily.  Emme 
line  didn't  care  if  Andrew  Stoddard  didn't  come.  She 
guessed  she  should  laugh  to  see  xkr  fretting  over  him.  She 


358  A   SOUVENIR. 

even  hinted,  in  her  rampant  loyalty,  that  p'rhaps  there  was 
some  reason  folks  didn't  dream  of  why  he  didn't  come. 
Mebbe  he'd  been  given  to  understand  he  wasn't  wanted. 

One  afternoon  she  came  home  from  one  of  the  neighbors' 
with  some  news.  She  had  seen  a  woman  who  lived  next 
to  the  Stoddards,  and  Andrew  had  gone  West. 

"  Has  he  ?"  said  Emmeline,  and  went  on  sewing. 

"  You're  a  queer  girl,"  said  her  mother.  She  liked  Em 
meline  to  be  dignified  and  reticent  about  it  to  other  people, 
but  she  felt  aggrieved  that  she  did  not  unbend  and  talk  it 
over  with  her. 

About  this  time  her  sister  Nancy  was  taken  sick  with  a 
slow  fever.  She  lingered  along  a  few  weeks  ;  the  fever  left 
her,  but  she  had  no  strength  to  rally ;  then  she  died.  It 
was  a  hard  blow  to  Charlotte.  She  had  been  very  fond  of 
her  sister,  and  had  an  admiration  for  her  which  was  some 
what  singular,  since  she  herself  was  much  the  stronger  char 
acter  of  the  two.  She  had  seemed  to  feel  almost  as  much 
satisfaction  in  Nancy's  fine  parlor  and  fancy-work  as  if  they 
had  been  her  own.  Perhaps  she  consoled  herself  in  that 
way  for  not  having  any  of  her  own,  and  maintained  to  her 
self  her  dignity  among  her  neighbors. 

After  her  sister's  death  she  began  to  think  that  some  of 
these  fine  things  ought,  by  right,  to  belong  to  her. 

"Nancy  earned  'em  jest  as  much  by  savin'  as  Thomas 
did  by  workin',"  she  told  Emmeline.  "  It  wouldn't  be 
nothin'  more'n  fair  for  her  sister  to  have  'em."  But  Thomas 
Weeks  had  in  him  capabilities  of  action  of  which  people 
generally  did  not  suspect  him. 

He  was  a  little,  spare,  iron-gray,  inoffensive-looking  man, 
but  he  had  been  a  small  tyrant  over  his  mild-visaged,  spec 
tacled  wife.  Now  she  was  dead  he  had  definite  plans  of 


A   SOUVENIR.  3  59 

his  own,  which  matured  as  soon  as  decency  would  permit, 
and  which  did  not  include  his  giving  his  deceased  wife's 
sister  his  fine  red-plush  furniture.  She  visited  him  often 
and  hinted,  but  he  smiled  knowingly,  and  talked  about 
something  else. 

Nancy  had  been  dead  about  six  months,  when,  one  after 
noon,  Mrs.  Steadman  saw  him  drive  past  in  a  shiny  buggy 
with  a  lady.  Her  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  she  talked, 
and  worried,  and  watched.  She  found  out  he  had  a  new 
hat  and  coat,  and  was  having  the  house  painted,  and  the 
sitting-room  and  kitchen  papered.  Everybody  said  he  was 
going  to  get  married,  but  nobody  seemed  to  know  to  whom. 
At  last  it  came  out.  He  came  to  church  one  Sunday  with 
his  bride — a  short,  stout,  sallow  woman  in  middle-aged  bridal 
finery,  no  more  like  poor  Nancy  than  a  huckleberry  bush  is 
like  a  willow  sapling.  She  was  a  widow  from  a  neighbor 
ing  town,  and  reputed  to  have  quite  a  snug  little  property — 
four  or  five  thousand  dollars. 

Emmeline  and  her  mother  sat  just  across  the  aisle  from 
the  newly  wedded  couple.  Mrs.  Steadman  had  given  one 
startled,  comprehensive  glance  at  them  when  they  turned 
into  the  pew.  After  that  she  did  not  look  at  them  again, 
but  sat  straight  and  rigid, -holding  her  chin  so  stiffly  against 
her  long  neck  that  it  looked  like  a  double  one,  pursing  up 
her  lips  as  if  to  keep  back  a  rushing  crowd  of  words  which 
were  clamoring  behind  them. 

She  told  Emmeline,  when  they  got  home,  that  it  was  all 
she  could  do  not  to  speak  right  out  in  meeting  and  tell 
Thomas  Weeks  just  what  she  thought  of  him. 

"  I'd  like  to  get  right  up,"  said  she,  "an'  ask  him  'f  he 
remembered  it  was  hardly  six  months  since  my  poor  sister 
was  laid  away,  an'  'f  he'd  ever  heerd  of  such  a  thing  as 


360  A  SOUVENIR. 

common  decency  an'  respect  for  folks'  memory,  an'  'f  he 
didn't  think  it  was  treatin'  some  folks  pretty  hard  to  bring 
another  woman  in  to  use  their  dead  sister's  things,  when 
he'd  never  given  them  a  penny's  worth  of  'em." 

As  far  as  the  results  went,  Charlotte  might  just  as  well 
have  spoken  out  in  meeting,  and  accused  her  recreant 
brother-in-law  openly.  She  Ijad  always  been  a  woman 
who  talked  a  great  deal,  and  could  not  help  making  fu 
nerals  for  all  her  woes,  and  now  there  was  not  a  woman  in 
the  town  with  whom  she  did  not  discuss  Thomas's  second 
marriage,  and  her  own  grievances  in  connection  therewith. 
They  all  sympathized  with  her :  women  always  do  in  such 
cases. 

She  warmed  up  on  the  subject  to  everybody  who  came 
into  the  shop.  Emmeline  kept  quietly  sewing,  giving  her 
opinions  on  her  work  when  asked  for  them,  but  not  saying 
much  besides.  Her  mother  did  not  understand  her ;  pri 
vately  she  thought  her  unfeeling.  Emmeline  had  not  heard 
a  word  from  Andrew  Stodclard  all  this  time.  For  a  while 
she  had  had  a  forlorn  hope  of  a  letter,  but  it  had  died  away 
now.  Outwardly  she  was  living  just  as  she  always  had  be 
fore  he  had  come  ;  but  the  old  homely  ways,  whose  crooks 
she  had  thought  she  knew  by  heart,  were  constantly  giving 
her  a  feeling  of  pain  and  strangeness.  She  was  not  imag 
inative  nor  self-conscious;  she  never  really  knew  how  un 
happy  she  was,  or  she  would  have  been  unhappier.  She 
kept  steadily  at  work,  and  ate  and  slept  and  went  about  as 
usual ;  she  never  dreamed  of  its  being  possible  for  her  to 
do  anything  else,  but  the  difference  was  all  the  time  goading 
her  terribly. 

Her  mother's  fretting  over  the  affair  had  disturbed  her 
actively  more  than  anything  else  ;  she  was  almost  glad 


A   SOUVENIR.  361 

now  to  have  it  turned  into  another  channel.  And  this  new 
one  threatened  to  be  well  worn  indeed  before  Mrs.  Stead- 
man  should  leave  it.  She  scolded  and  cried  in  it.  She 
was  divided  between  grief  and  indignation. 

Poor  Nancy's  few  articles  of  finery  rankled  more  and 
more  in  her  mind.  She  journeyed  np  to  Thomas's  house 
evening  after  evening  to  see  if  there  were  a  light  in  the  best 
parlor ;  report  said  that  they  used  it  common  now.  She 
came  home  trembling:  there  was  one. 

"  To  think  of  their  usin'  poor  Nancy's  best  plush  furni 
ture  like  that!"  she  said;  "settin'  in  them  stuffed  chairs 
every  evenin'  jest  as  if  they  was  wooden  ones ;  they  won't 
last  no  time  at  all.  An'  to  think  how  hard  she  worked  an* 
saved  to  get  'em,  an'  how  choice  she  was  of  'em.  Then 
thar's  all  them  tidies  an'  mats  an'  rugs,  an'  that  beautiful 
hair  wreath  made  out  of  my  folks'  hair!" 

This  last  seemed  to  disturb  Charlotte  more  than  any 
thing  else.  She  had  not  a  doubt,  she  said,  but  what  work 
ing  on  it  had  hastened  Nancy's  death,  and  to  think  that 
that  other  woman  should  have  it ! 

One  Friday  evening  Mrs.  Steadman  started  for  meeting. 
Emmeline  did  not  go.  She  had  some  work  she  was  hurry 
ing  on,  and  her  mother,  contrary  to  her  usual  habit,  did  not 
urge  her  to  ;  indeed  she  rather  advocated  her  staying  at 
home. 

About  half  an  hour  after  her  mother  left,  Emmeline  laid 
down  her  work — it  had  grown  too  dark  for  her  to  see  with 
out  lighting  a  lamp.  As  she  sat  at  the  window,  a  moment 
in  the  dusk,  she  saw  a  figure  hurrying  up  which  she  did 
not  think  could  be  her  mother's,  it  came  so  fast  and  Hur 
riedly  ;  besides,  it  was  not  time  for  meeting  to  be  out. 

But  when  the  gate  opened  she  saw  it  was.     Her  mother 


362  A   SOUVENIR. 

scuttled  up  the  steps  into  the  entry,  and  opened  the  shop 
door  cautiously. 

"  Emmeline,  anybody  here  ?" 

"  No." 

She  came  in  then.  She  had  something  under  her  arm. 
"  Light  the  lamp,  Emmeline— quick  !  See  what  I've  got !" 

Emmeline  got  up  and  lighted  the  lamp.  "  Why,  mother !" 
said  she,  aghast.  Her  mother  was  holding  the  hair  wreath, 
in  its  oval  gilt  frame,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  tri 
umph  and  terror.  "  Why,  mother,  how  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  Get  it  ?  I  walked  into  the  house  an'  took  it,"  said 
Charlotte,  defiantly.  "  I  don't  care  ;  I  meant  to  have  it. 
Nancy  made  it,  an'  worked  herself  'most  to  death  over  it, 
an'  it's  made  out  of  my  folks'  hair,  an'  I  had  a  right  to  it." 

"  Why,  mother,  how  did  you  ever  dare  ?" 

"  I  peeked  into  the  vestry,  an'  saw  'em  both  in  thar  on 
one  of  the  back  seats.  Then  I  run  right  up  to  the  house. 
I  knew,  unless  they  did  different  from  what  they  used  to, 
I  could  git  in  through  the  shed.  An'  I  did.  I  went  right 
through  the  kitchen  an'  sittin'-room  into  the  parlor.  It 
made  me  feel  bad  enough.  That  plush  furniture's  gettin' 
real  worn,  usin'  it  so  common  ;  the  nap's  all  rubbed  off  on 
the  edges,  an'  the  tidies  are  dirty.  I  saw  a  great  spot  on 
that  Brussels  carpet,  too,  where  somebody'd  tracked  in.  It 
don't  look  much  as  it  used  to.  I  could  have  sat  right  down 
an'  cried.  But  I  was  afraid  to  stop  long,  so  I  jest  took  this 
picture  down  an'  come  off.  I  didn't  see  a  soul.  I  s'pose 
you  think  I've  done  an  awful  thing,  Emmeline  ?" 

•"  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  some  trouble  about  it,  mother." 

'^/ajn't  afraid." 

In_spite  of  her  bravado,  she  was  afraid.  She  tucked 
away  the  wreath  out  of  sight  up-stairs,  and  when  Thomas 


A  SOUVENIR.  ,363 

Weeks  came  to  the  door  the  next  clay,  she  answered  his 
ring  with  an  inward  trepidation.  She  had  an  inclination  to 
run  out  of  the  back  door,  and  leave  Emmeline  to  encounter 
him,  but  she  resisted  it. 

She  came  off  victorious,  however.  Even  Thomas  Weeks 
succumbed  before  the  crushing  arguments  and  the  wither 
ing  sarcasms,  tumbling  pell-mell  over  each  other,  which  she 
brought  to  bear  upon  him. 

"  He  says  I  may  keep  it,"  she  told  Emmeline  when  she 
went  in.  "  He  guesses  Mis'  Weeks  don't  set  no  great  store 
by  it,  an'  he  don't  care.  He  was  awful  toppin'  at  first,  but 
he  begun  to  look  kind  of  'shamed,  an'  wilted  right  down 
after  I'd  talked  to  him  awhile.  I  told  him  jest  what  I 
thought  of  the  whole  business  from  beginnin'  to  end." 

After  that  the  hair  wreath  was  hung  up  in  state  in  the 
front  room,  and  openly  displayed.  Everybody  upheld  Char 
lotte  in  taking  it,  and  she  felt  herself  quite  a  heroine.  Noth 
ing  delighted  her  more  than  to  have  people  speak  about  it 
and  admire  it. 

One  day  she  was  descanting  on  its  beauties  to  one  of  the 
neighbors,  when  a  question  arose  which  attracted  Emme- 
line's  attention. 

"Whose  hair  is  that  reddish  rose-bud  made  out  of?" 
asked  the  woman. 

Mrs.  Steadman  gave  a  warning  "Hush!"  and  a  scared 
glance  at  her  daughter.  Emmeline  saw  it.  After  the  wom 
an  had  gone  she  went  up  to  the  wreath,  and  looked  at  it 
closely.  "Mother,"  said  she,  "whose  hair  is  in  that  rose 
bud  ?" 

Mrs.  Steadman  shrank  before  her  daughter's  look. 

"  Mother,  you  didn't  go  to  my  drawer  and  take  that  out ! 
I  missed  it !  How  did  you  know  I  had  it?" 


364  A   SOUVENIR. 

"  Now,  Emmeline,  thar  ain't  no  reason  for  you  to  get  so 
mad.  I  went  to  your  drawer  one  day  for  something,  an1 
happened  to  see  it.  An'  poor  Nancy  wanted  some  hair 
that  color  dreadfully,  an'  she  didn't  really  want  to  go  out  of 
the  family,  an'  we  all  thought — " 

"  Mother,  did  he  know  it  ?" 

"Now,  Emmeline,  it's  ridiculous  for  you  to  fire  up  so.  I 
s'pose  he  did.  You  remember  that  last  Friday  night  when 
Paulina  was  here  last  summer,  an'  we  all  went  to  meetin' ? 
He  came  that  night,  and  we  warn't  to  home,  and  Nancy 
was  settin'  on  her  door-step  when  he  drove  by,  an'  she  had 
to  call  him  in  an'  show  him  the  wreath.  An'  I  s'pose  she 
let  on  'bout  his  hair  bein'  in  it.  I  told  her  she  was  awful 
silly ;  but  she  said  he  kinder  cornered  her  up,  an'  she 
couldn't  help  it.  I  scolded  her  for  it.  She  said  he  seemed 
kinder  upset." 

"  Mother,  that  was  the  reason." 

"  Reason  for  what  ?" 

"  The  reason  he  stopped  coming,  and — everything." 

"  Emmeline  Steadman,  I  don't  believe  it.  'Tain't  likely 
a  fellar'd  get  so  mad  as  that  jest  'cause  somebody'd  made 
a  rose-bud  out  of  his  hair  to  put  in  a  wreath  ;  'taint  reason 
able.  I  should  think  he'd  been  rather  pleased  than  any 
thing  else." 

"Oh,  mother,  don't  you  see?  He — gave  it  to  me,  and 
he  thought  that  was  all  I  cared  for  it,  to  give  it  to  Aunt 
Nancy  to  put  in  a  hair  wreath.  And  he  is  awful  sensitive 
and  quick-tempered." 

"  I  should  think  he  was,  to  get  mad  at  such  a  thing  as 
that ;  I  can't  believe  he  did  J" 

"  I  know  he  did  !" 

"  Well,  there  ain't  any  call  for  you  to  feel  huffy  about  it. 


A   SOUVENIR.  365 

I'm  sorry  I  did  it :  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  if  I'd  dreamed  it 
was  goin'  to  make  any  trouble.  I  didn't  have  any  idea  he 
was  such  a  fire-an'-tow  kind  of  a  fellar  as  that.  I  guess 
it's  jest  as  well  we  didn't  have  him  in  the  family;  thar 
wouldn't  have  been  no  livin'  with  him." 

That  night  Emmeline  wrote  a  letter  to  Andrew  Stod- 
dard.  She  sat  up  for  the  purpose,  pretending  she  had 
some  work  to  finish,  after  her  mother  had  gone  to  bed.  She 
wrote  the  sort  of  letter  that  most  New  England  girls  in  her 
standing  would  have  written.  She  began  it  "  Dear  Friend," 
touched  very  lightly  on  the  subject  of  the  hair,  just  enough 
to  explain  it,  then  decorously  hoped  that  if  any  misunder 
standing  had  interrupted  their  friendship  it  might  be  done 
away  with  ;  she  should  always  value  his  very  highly.  Then 
she  signed  herself  his  true  friend  "Emmeline  E.  Stead- 
man." 

Nobody  knew  what  tortures  of  suspense  Emmeline  suf 
fered  after  she  had  sent  her  poor  little  friendly  letter.  She 
sewed  on  quietly  just  as  usual.  Her  mother  knew  nothing 
about  it. 

She  began  to  go  regularly  to  the  post-office,  though  not 
at  mail  times.  She  would  make  an  errand  to  the  store 
where  it  was,  and,  after  she  was  through  trading,  inquire 
quietly  and  casually  if  there  were  a  letter  for  her. 

One  morning  she  came  home  from  one  of  those  errands, 
dropped  down  in  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face  with,  her 
hands.      Her   mother   was   frightened :    she    was   mixing 
bread :  they  were  both  out  in  the  kitchen. 
.     "Emmeline,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Emmeline  burst  into  a  bitter  cry  :  "  He's  married.     Mrs. 
Wilson  told  me  just  now.     Mrs.  Adams  told  her :  she  lives 
next  to  his  folks." 
24 


366  A   SOUVENIR. 

"Why,  Emmeline,  I  didn't  know  you  cared  so  much 
about  that  fellar  as  all  that !" 

"I  didn't!"  said  Emmeline,  fiercelyj  "but  I — wrote  to 
him,  an'  what's  he  goin'  to  think  ?  I'd  died  first,  if  I'd 
known.  Oh,  if  you'd  only  let  that  lock  of  hair  alone  !  You 
brought  all  this  trouble  on  me  !" 

"Well,  Emmeline  Steadman,  if  you  want  to  talk  so  to  the 
mother  that's  done  for  you  what  I  have,  on  account  of  a 
fellar  that's  showed  pretty  plain  he  didn't  care  any  great 
about  you,  you  can." 

Emmeline  said  no  more,  but,  with  a  look  of  despair,  rose 
to  go  up-stairs. 

"I've  told  you  I  am  sorry  I  took  it." 

"  I  think  you'd  better  be,"  said  Emmeline,  as  she  went 
through  the  door. 

She  did  no  more  work  that  day ;  she  stayed  up-stairs, 
and  would  see  nobody :  she  did  not  care  now  what  people 
thought.  Mrs.  Steadman  grew  more  and  more  conscience- 
stricken  and  worried ;  she  went  for  the  night  mail  herself, 
with  a  forlorn  hope  of  something,  she  did  not  know  what. 

When  she  got  back  she  came  directly  up-stairs  into  the 
room  where  Emmeline  was.  "  Emmeline,"  said  she,  in  a 
shaking  voice,  "  here's  a  letter  for  you  ;  I  guess  it's  from 
him." 

Emmeline  took  it  and  opened  it,  her  face  set  and  un 
moved  ;  she  had  it  all  settled  that  the  letter  was  to  tell  her 
of  his  marriage.  She  read  down  the  first  page,  her  face 
changing  with  every  word.  Her  mother  watched  her  breath 
lessly,  as  if  she  too  were  reading  the  letter  by  reflection  in 
her  daughter's  face. 

At  last  Emmeline  looked  up  at  her  mother.  She  was 
radiant ;  she  was  trying  to  keep  from  smiling,  lest  she  be- 


A  SOUVENIR.  367 

tray  too  much;  but  she  could  not  help  it.  She  looked 
blissful  and  shamefaced  together. 

"Mother — he  ain't  married  after  all ;  and  he  says  it's  all 
right  about  the  hair;  and — he's  coming  home  !" 

Charlotte's  face  was  as  radiant  as  her  daughter's,  but 
she  said,  "  Well,  what  do  you  think  now  ?  After  you've 
been  such  an  ungrateful  girl,  blaming  your  mother,  an'  talkin' 
to  her  as  you  did  this  mornin',  I  should  think  you'd  be 
ashamed.  You  don't  deserve  it !" 

Emmeline  got  off  the  bed ;  with  her  letter  in  her  hand 
she  went  over  to  her  mother,  and  kissed  her  shyly  on  her 
soft,  old  cheek.  "  I'm  real  sorry  I  spoke  so,  mother." 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN. 

A  STRONG,  soft  south  wind  had  been  blowing  the  day 
before,  and  the  trees  had  dropped  nearly  all  their  leaves. 
There  were  left  only  a  few  brownish-golden  ones  dangling 
on  the  elms,  and  hardly  any  at  all  on  the  maples.  There 
were  many  trees  on  the  street,  and  the  fallen  leaves  were 
heaped  high.  Mrs.  Wilson  Torry's  little  door-yard  was 
ankle-deep  with  them.  The  air  was  full  of  their  odor,  which 
could  affect  the  spirit  like  a  song,  and  mingled  with  it  was 
the  scent  of  grapes. 

The  minister  had  been  calling  on  Mrs.  Torry  that  after-, 
noon,  and  now  he  stood  facing  her  on  the  porch,  taking 
leave.  He  was  very  young,  and  this  was  his  first  parish. 
He  was  small  and  light  and  mild-looking ;  still  he  had  con 
siderable  nervous  volubility.  The  simple  village  women 
never  found  him  hard  to  entertain. 

Now,  all  at  once,  he  made  an  exclamation,  and  fumbled 
in  his  pocket  for  a  folded  paper.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  I 
nearly  forgot  this.  Mr.  Plainfield  requested  me  to  hand 
this  to  you,  Mrs.  Torry.  It  is  a  problem  which  he  has  been 
working  over ;  he  gave  it  to  me  to  try,  and  wanted  me  to 
propose,  when  I  called,  that  you  should  see  what  you  could 
do  with  it." 

She  seized  it  eagerly.     "Well,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do; 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN.  369 

but  you  an'  he  mustn't  make  no  great  calculations  on  me. 
You  know  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  'rithmetic  books 
an'  the  rules  they  hev  nowadays ;  but  I'm  willin'  to  try." 

"  Oh,  you'll  have  it  done  while  Mr.  Plainfield  and  I  are 
thinking  of  it,  Mrs.  Torry." 

"You  ain't  neither  of  you 'done  it,  then?" 

"He  had  not  at  last  accounts,  and — I  have  not,"  replied 
the  young  man,  laughing,  but  coloring  a  little. 

The  old  lady's  eyes  gleamed  as  she  looked  at  him,  then 
at  the  paper.  "  I  dare  say  I  can't  make  head  nor  tail  of 
it,"  said  she,  "  but  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  by  an'  by." 

She  had  something  of  a  childish  air  as  she  stood  there. 
She  was  slender,  and  so  short  that  she  was  almost  dwarfed ; 
her  shoulders  were  curved  a  little  by  spinal  disease.  She 
had  a  small,  round  face,  and  a  mouth  which  widened  out 
innocently  into  smiles  as  she  talked.  Her  eyes  looked  out 
directly  at  one,  likfi_.a  child's  ;  over  them  loomed  a  high 
forehead  with  bulging  temples  covered  with  deep  wrin 
kles. 

"  You  have  always  been  very  fond  of  mathematics,  haven't 
you,  Mrs.  Torry?"  said  the  minister,  in  his  slow  retreat. 

"  Lor',  yes.  I  can't  remember  the  time  when  I  wa'n't 
crazy  to  cipher." 

"Arithmetic  is  a  very  fascinating  study,  I  think,"  re 
marked  the  minister,  trying  to  slide  easily  off  the  subject 
and  down  the  porch  steps. 

"  'Tis  to  me.  An'  there's  somethin'  I  was  thinkin'  about 
this  very  forenoon — seein'  all  them  leaves  on  the  ground 
made  me,  I  s'pose.  It's  always  been  a  sight  of  comfort  to 
me  to  count.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I'd  most  rather  count 
than  play.  I  used  to  sit  down  and  count  by  the  hour  to 
gether.  I  remember  a  little  pewter  porringer  I  had,  that  I 


370  AW  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN. 

used  to  fill  up  with  beans  an'  count  'em.  Well,  it  come  into 
my  head  this  forenoon  what  a  blessed  privilege  it  would  be 
to  count  up  all  the  beautiful  things  in  this  creation.  Just 
think  of  countin'  all  them  red  an'  gold-colored  leaves,  an' 
all  the  grapes  an'  apples  in  the  fall;  an'  when  it  come  to 
the  winter,  all  the  flakes  of  snow,  an'  the  sparkles  of  frost ; 
an'  when  it  come  to  the  spring,  all  the  flowers,  an'  blades 
of  grass,  an'  the  little,  new,  light-green  leaves.  I  don' 
know  but  you'll  think  it  ain't  exactly  reverent,  but  it  does 
seem  to  me  that  I'd  rather  do  that  than  sing  in  the  other 

world.     Mebbe  somebody  does  have  to  do  the  countin' ; 

r         . i    __        _     1 1  — • 

mebbe  it's  singin'  for  some." 

She  stared  up  into  the  warm,  blue  air,  in  which  the  bare 
branches  of  the  trees  glistened,  with  a  sweet,  solemn  wonder 
in  her  old  face. 

The  minister,  in  ajbewildered  way,  pondered  all  the  old 
woman  had  said,  as  he  rustled  down  the  street.  Later,  Mr. 
Plainfield  (the  young  high-school  teacher)  and  he  would 
have  a  discussion  over  it.  They  often  talked  over  Mrs. 
Wilson  Torry. 

After  her  caller  had  gone,  the  old  woman  entered  the 
house.  On  the  left  of  the  little  entry  was  the  best  room, 
where  she  had  been  entertaining  the  minister ;  on  the  right, 
the  kitchen.  A  young  girl  was  in  there  eating  an  apple. 
She  looked  up  when  Mrs.  Torry  stood  in  the  door. 

"  He's  gone,  ain't  he  ?"  said  she. 

"  Why,  Letty,  when  did  you  come  ?" 

"  A  few  minutes  ago.  School's  just  out.  I  came  in  the 
back  door,  and  heard  him  talking,  so  I  kept  still." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  in  and  see  him  ?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  want  to  see  him.  W<hat  you  got  there, 
grandma  ?" 


AN  OLD   ARITHMETICIAN.  371 

"  Nothin'  but  a  sum  the  minister  brought  me  to  do.  He 
an'  Mr.  Plainfield  have  been  workin'  over  it." 

"Couldn't  they  doit?" 

"Well,  he  said  they  hadn't  neither  of  'em  done  it  yet." 

"  Is  it  awful  hard  ?" 

"  I  don'  know.     I  ain't  looked  at  it  yet." 

"Let  me  see.  He  didn't  get  it  out  of  any  of  our  books, 
I  know.  We  never  had  anything  like  this." 

"  I  s'pose  it's  one  he  come  across  somewhere.  I  guess 
I'll  sit  down  an'  look  at  it  two  or  three  minutes." 

An  old  bureau  stood  against  the  wall ;  on  it  were  ar 
ranged  four  religious  newspapers  in  the  exact  order  of  their 
issues,  the  latest  on  top,  Farmers'  almanacs  for  the  last  four 
years  filed  in  the  same  way,  and  a  slate  surmounted  by  an 
old  arithmetic.  The  pile  of  newspapers  was  in  the  middle ; 
the  slate  and  almanacs  were  on  either  end. 

Letty,  soberly  eating  her  apple,  watched  her  grand 
mother  getting  out  the  arithmetic  and  slate.  She  was  a 
pretty  young  girl ;  her  small,  innocent  face,  in  spite  of  its 
youthful  roundness  and  fairness,  reminded  people  of  Mrs. 
Torry's. 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  Mr.  Plainfield  anyhow,37  said  she, 
as  the  click  of  her  grandmother's  pencil  on  the  slate  be 
gan  ;  "  and  he  knows  I  don't.  He  overheard  me  telling 
Lizzie  Bascom  so  to-day.  He  came  right  up  behind  us  on 
the  street,  and  I  know  he  heard.  You  ought  to  have  seen 
his  face." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you've  got  agin  him,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Tony,  absently,  as  she  dotted  down  figures. 

"  I  haven't  much,  of  any  thing  that  I  know  of  against  him, 
only  I  don't  think  he's  much  of  a  teacher.  He  can't  do  ex 
amples  as  quickly  as  you,  I  know,  and  I  don't  think  a  man 


372  :AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN. 

has  any  business  to  be  school-teaching  if  he  can't  do  exam 
ples  as  quickly  as  an  old  lady." 

Mrs.  Torry  stopped  her  work,  and  fixed  her  round,  un 
winking  eyes  full  on  the  girl's  face. 

"  Letty  Torry,  there's  some  things  you  don't  understand. 
You  never  will  understand  'em,  if  you  live  to  be  as  old  as 
Methuselah,  as  far  as  that's  concerned.  But  you'll  get  so 
you  know  the  things  air.  Sometimes  it  don't  make  any 
difference  if  anybody's  ignorant,  an'  ain't  got  any  book- 
learnin' ;  air  old,  an'  had  a  hard-workin'  life.  There'll  be 
somethin'  in  'em  that  everybody  else  ain't  got ;  somethin' 
that  growed,  an'  didn't  have  to  be  learned.  I've  got  this 
faculty;  I  can  cipher.  It  ain't  nothin'  agin  Mr.  Plainfield 
if  he  ain't  got  it ;  it's  a  gift"  Her  voice  took  on  a  solemn 
tone  and  trembled.  Letty  looked  at  her  with  childish  won 
der.  "Well,"  said  she,  with  a  subdued  manner,  "he  has  no 
right  to  teach,  anyhow,  without  it.  I  guess  I'll  have  another 
apple.  I  was  real  hungry." 

So  Letty  ate  another  apple  silently,  while  her  grand 
mother  worked  at  the  problem  again. 

She  did  not  solve  it  as  easily  as  usual.  She  worked  till 
midnight,  her  little  lamp  drawn  close  to  her  on  the  kitchen 
table  ;  then  she  went  to  bed,  with  the  answer  still  in  doubt. 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to  do  for  me  to  set  up  any  longer,"  said 
she,  forlornly,  as  she  replaced  the  slate  on  the  bureau.  "  I 
shall  be  sick  if  I  do.  But  I  declare  I  don't  see  what's  got 
into  me.  I  hope  I  ain't  losin'  my  faculty." 

She  could  not  sleep  much.  The  next  morning,  as  soon 
as  their  simple  breakfast  was  eaten  and  Letty  had  gone  to 
school,  she  seated  herself  with  her  slate  and  pencil. 

When  Letty  came  home  at  noon  she  found  her  grand 
mother  still  at  work,  and  no  dinner  ready. 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN.  273 

"  I  do  declare !"  cried  the  old  woman.  "  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you're  home,  Letty !  It  ain't  twelve  o'clock, 
is  it?" 

"  Course  it  is  ;  quarter  past." 

"I  ain't  got  one  mite  of  dinner  ready,  then.  I've  been 
so  took  up  with  the  sum  I  hadn't  no  idea  how  the  time  was 
goin'.  I  don'  know  what  you  will  do,  child." 

"Oh,  I'll  get  some  bread  and  milk,  grandma;  just  as 
soon  have  it  as  anything  else.  Got  the  problem  done?" 

"  No,  I  ain't.  I  feel  real  bad  about  your  dinner.  I'll 
kindle  up  a  fire  now  an'  fry  you  an  egg — there  be  time 
enough." 

"  I'd  rather  have  bread  and  milk." 

After  Letty  had  gone  to  school  for  the  afternoon,  and 
Mrs.  Tony  had  been  working  fruitlessly  for  an  hour  longer, 
she  dropped  her  pencil. 

"I  declare,"  said  she,  "I'm  afraid  I  am  losin'  my  facul- 
ty!" 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  "I  won't  give  up  that  I  am, 
anj/jipw^ said  she,  and  took  the  pencil  again. 

When  Letty  returned,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon, 
she  scarcely  knew  it,  with  the  full  meaning  of  the  word. 
She  saw  her,  but  her  true  consciousness  was  so  full  of  figures 
that  Letty's  fair  face  could  only  look  in  at  the  door. 

Letty  ran  in  hastily;  a  young  girl  was  waiting  for  her 
outside.  "  Oh,  grandma,"  cried  Letty,  "  Lizzie's  going  to 
Ellsworth  to  do  an  errand  for  her  mother;  she's  coming 
back  on  the  last  train.  Can't  I  go  with  her?" 

Her  grandmother  stared  at  her  for  a  minute,  and  made 
no  answer. 

"  She's  got  tickets  for  both  of  us.    Can't  I  go,  grandma  ?" 

"  Yes." 


374  AN  OLD   ARITHMETICIAN. 

Letty  smoothed  her  hair  a  little  and  put  on  her  best  hat ; 
then  she  went. 

"  Good-by,"  said  she,  looking  back  at  the  intent  old  fig 
ure  ;  but  she  got  no  answer. 

"Grandma's  so  taken  up  with  an  example  she's  got  that 
she  doesn't  know  anything,"  she  told  her  friend  when  she 
was  outside.  "She  didn't  answer  when  I  said  good-by; 
she  forgot  to  get  dinner  to-day  too." 

Mrs.  Tony  worked  on  and  on.  She  never  looked  up  nor 
thought  of  anything  else  until  it  grew  so  dark  that  she  could 
not  see  her  figures.  "  I'll  have  to  light  the  lamp,"  said  she, 
with  a  sigh. 

After  it  was  lighted  she  went  to  work  again.  She  never 
thought  of  wanting  any  supper,  though  she  had  eaten  noth 
ing  since  morning. 

The  kitchen  clock  struck  seven — Letty  should  have  been 
home  then — eight,  and  nine,  but  she  never  noticed  it.  A 
few  minutes  afterwards  some  one  knocked  on  the  door. 
She  ciphered  on.  Then  the  knocks  were  repeated,  louder 
and  quicker. 

"  Somebody's  knockin',  I  guess,"  she  muttered,  and 
opened  the  door.  Mr.  Plainfield  stood  there.  He  was  a 
handsome  young  man  with  rosy  cheeks  ;  he  was  always 
smiling.  He  looked  past  her  into  the  room  inquiringly. 
"  Is  Letty  at  home  ?"  said  he. 

"  Letty  ?" 

"  Yes,  Letty.     Is  she  at  home  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  she's  here.     Letty  !" 

"Has  she  gone  to  bed?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  guess  she  has."  Mrs.  Torry  opened  the 
door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "  Letty !  Letty !" 

"I  guess  she  must  be  asleep,"  said  she,  turning  to  the 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN.  375 

young  man,  who  had  stepped  into  the  kitchen.  "  Want 
me  to  go  up  an'  see  ?  Did  you  want  anything  pertick- 
ler  ?" 

He  hesitated.  "  If  you  had — just  as  soon — I — had  some 
thing  special — " 

The  old  lady  climbed  the  steep,  uncarpeted  stairs,  feebly, 
with  a  long  pat  on  every  step.  She  came  down  faster, 
reckless  of  her  trembling  uncertainty.  "  She  ain't  there  ! 
Letty's  gone  !  Where  is  she  ?" 

"You  knew  she  went  to  Ellsworth  with  Lizzie?" 

"No,  I  didn't. 

"Why,  she  said  something  to  you  about  it,  didn't  she?" 

"  I  don'  know  whether  she  did  or  not." 

"Lizzie  just  told  me  that  she  missed  her  in  the  depot. 
She  left  her  there  for  a  minute  while  she  went  back  for 
something  she  had  forgotten.  When  she  came  back  she 
was  gone.  The  train  was  all  ready,  and  Lizzie  thought  she 
must  be  on  it,  so  she  got  on  herself.  She  did  not  see  her 
in  the  depot  here,  and  has  been  crying  about  it,  and  afraid 
to  tell  till  just  now.  I  came  right  over  as  soon  as  I  knew 
about  it." 

"Oh,  Letty  !  Letty  !  Where's  Letty?  Oh,  Mr.  Plain- 
field,  you  go  an'  find  her!  Go  right  off!  You  will,  won't 
you  ?  Letty  allers  liked  you." 

"I  always  liked  Letty,"  said  the  young  man,  brokenly. 
"I'll  find  her — don't  you  worry." 

"You'll  go  right  off  now  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will ;  I  won't  wait  a  minute." 

"Oh,  Letty,  Letty!  Where  is  she?  What  shall  I  do? 
That  little  bit  of  a  thing — and  she  was  always  one  of  the 
frightened  kind — out  all  alone;  an'  it's 'night!  She  never 
went  to  Ellsworth  alone  in  her  hull  life.  She  didn't  know 


376  AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN. 

nothin'  about  the  town,  an'  she  didn't  have  a  cent  of  money 
in  her  pocket." 

"I'll  send  Mrs.  Bascom  over  to  stay  with  you,"  Mr. 
Plainfield  called  back  as  he  hurried  off. 

Soon  Mrs.  Bascom  came,  poking  her  white,  nervous  face 
in  the  cloor  inquiringly.  "  She  ain't  come  ?" 

"  No.     Oh,  Mis'  Bascom,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Torry,  I  do  feel  so  bad  about  it  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  If  Lizzie  had  only  told  before  !  but  there  she 
was  up-stairs  crying,  and  afraid  to  tell.  I've  been  scolding 
her,  but  she  felt  so  bad  I  had  to  stop.  She  called  me,  an' 
told  me  finally;  an'  I  guess  twa'n't  long  before  Mr.  Plain- 
field  started  off  to  find  out  if  she  was  home.  It  was  lucky 
he  was  boarding  with  us.  He'll  find  her  if  anybody  can ; 
he's  as  quick  as  lightning.  He  turned  white's  a  sheet 
when  I  told  him." 

"Oh,  Mis'  Bascom!" 

"  Now,  don't  give  up  so,  Mis'  Torry.  He'll  find  her.  She 
can't  be  very  far  off.  You'll  see  her  walking  in  here  first 
thing  you  know.  He's  got  a  real  fast  team,  an'  he's  started 
for  Ellsworth  now.  He  went  past  me  like  a  streak  when  I 
was  coming  tip  the  road.  He'll  have  her  back  safe  and 
sound  before  morning." 

"Oh,  Letty!  Letty!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  It's  my  own 
fault,  every  mite  of  it's  my  own  fault.  Tis  ;  you  don't  know 
nothin'  about  it.  The  minister  brought  me  a  sum,  he  an' 
Mr.  Plainfield  had  been  workin'  on,  to  do,  yesterday  after 
noon,  an'  I  jest  sat  and  ciphered  half  the  night,  an'  all  day. 
I  didn't  know  no  more  what  Letty  asked  me,  when  she 
came  in  from  school,  than  nothin'  at  all.  I  didn't  more'n 
half  know  when  she  come.  I  didn't  know  nothin'  but  them 
figgers,  an'  now  Letty's  lost,  an'  it's  my  fault." 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN'.  377 

"Why,  you  might  have  let  her  gone  if  you'd  known." 

"  I  guess  I  shouldn't  let  her  gone  all  alone  with  your  Liz 
zie,  to  come  home  after  dark  in  the  last  train,  little  delicate 
thing  as  she  was.  I  guess  I  shouldn't;  an'  I  guess  I  should 
have  started  up  an'  done  something,  if  I'd  known,  when 
she  wasn't  here  at  train  time.  I  didn't  get  the  sum  done, 
an'  I'm  glad  of  it ;  it  seems  to  me  jest  as  if  I  was  losin'  my 
faculty  as  I'm  growin'  older,  an'  I  hope  I  am." 

"  Now,  don't  talk  so,  Mis'  Torry.  Sit  down  an'  try  to  be 
calm.  You'll  be  sick." 

"  I  guess  there  ain't  much  bein'  calm.  I  tell  you  what 
'tis,  Mis'  Bascom,  I've  been  a  wicked  woman.  I've  been 
thinkin'  so  much  of  this  faculty  I've  had  for  cipherin'  that 
I've  set  it  afore  everything — I  hev.  Only  yesterday  that 
poor  child  didn't  hev  any  dinner  but  crackers  an'  milk, 
'cause  I  was  so  took  up  with  the  sum  that  I  forgot  it.  An' 
she  was  jest  as  patient  as  a  lamb  about  it;  said  she'd  rather 
hev  crackers  an'  milk  than  anything  else.  Oh,  dear  !  dear  !" 

"Don't  cry,  Mis' Torry." 

"  I  can't  help  it.  It  don't  make  no  difference  what  folks 
are  born  with  a  faculty  for — whether  it's  cipherin',  or  sing- 
in',  or  writin'  poetry — the  love  that's  betwixt  human  beings 
an'  the  help  that's  betwixt  'em  ought  to  come  first.  I've 
known  it  all  the  time,  but  I've  gone  agin  it,  an'  now  I've 
got  my  pay.  What  shall  I  do?" 

Mrs.  Bascom  remained  with  her  all  night,  but  she  could 
not  pacify  her  in  the  least.     She  was  nearly  distracted  herA 
self.     She  was  fearful  that  her  Lizzie  might  be  blamed. 

The  next  day  people  flocked  to  the  house  to  inquire  if 
there  were  any  news  from  Letty,  and  to  comfort  her  grand 
mother.  Sympathy  seemed  fairly  dripping  like  fragrant  oil 
from  these  simple,  honest  hearts ;  but  the  poor  old  woman 


378  AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN. 

got  no  refreshing  influence  from  it.  She  kept  on  her  old 
strain  in  their  ears.  She  had  lost  Letty,  and  it  was  all  her 
own  fault,  and  what  should  she  do  ?  Air.  Plainfield  did  not 
come  home.  The  minister  took  his  place  in  school.  Noth 
ing  was  heard  until  noon  ;  then  a  telegram  from  the  teacher 
came.  He  thought  he  was  on  Letty's  track,  he  said ;  they 
should  hear  again. 

Next  day  there  was  a  second  message :  Letty  was  safe ; 
coming  home  as  soon  as  possible.  The  following  day 
passed  then,  and  not  another  word  came.  The  old  grand 
mother's  faith  and  hope  seemed  to  have  deserted  her.  She 
knew  Letty  was  not  found ;  she  never  would  be  found.  She 
and  Mr.  Plainfield  were  both  lost  now.  Something  dread 
ful  had  happened  to  both  of  them. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,"  she  told  Mrs.  Bascom  one  after 
noon,  with  a  fierce  indignation  at  herself,  "  I  can't  help 
thinkin'  about  that  awful  sum  now  after  all  that's  happened. 
Them  figgers  keep  troopin'  into  my  head  right  in  the  midst 
of  my  thinkin'  about  Letty.  It's  all  I  can  do  to  let  that 
slate  alone,  an'  not  take  it  off  the  bureau.  But  I  won't — I 
won't  if  it  kills  me  not  to.  An'  all  the  time  I  jest  despise 
myself  for  it:  a-lettin'  my  faculty  for  cipherin'  get  ahead 
of  things  that's  higher  an'  sacreder.  I  do  think  I've  lost 
my  faculty  now,  an'  I  'most  hope  I  hev.  But  it  won't  make 
no  difference  'bout  Letty  now.  Oh  dear !  dear !  What 
shall  I  do  ?" 

On  the  fourth  day  after  Letty's  disappearance,  between 
six  and  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Torry  was  sit 
ting  alone  in  her  kitchen.  The  last  sympathizer  had  gone 
home  to  eat  her  supper. 

The  distressed  old  woman  had  drunk  a  cup  of  tea ;  that 
was  all  she  would  touch.  The  pot  was  still  on  the  stove. 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN.  379 

There  was  a  soft  yellow  light  from  the  lamp  over  the  room. 
The  warm  air  was  full  of  the  fragrance  of  boiling  tea. 

Mrs.  Torry  sat  looking  over  at  the  bureau.  She  would 
have  looked  the  same  way  if  she  had  been  starving  and 
seen  food  there. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "if — I  could — only  work  on  that 
sum  a  little  while,  it  does  seem  as  if  'twould  comfort  me 
more'n  anything.  O  Lord !  I  wonder  if  I  was  to  blame  ? 
'Twas  the  way  I  was  made,  an'  I  couldn't  help  that. 
P'rhaps  I  should  hev  let  Letty  gone,  an'  she'd  been  lost, 
anyway.  I  wonder  if  I  hev  lost  my  faculty?" 

She  sat  there  looking  over  at  the  slate.  At  last  she  rose 
and  started  to  cross  the  room.  Midway  she  stopped. 

"Oh,  what  am  I  cloin'?  Letty's  lost,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  ci- 
pherin' !  S'pose  she  should  come  in  an'  ketch  me  ?  She'd 
be  so  hurt  she'd  never  get  over  it.  She  wouldn't  think  I 
cared  anything  about  her." 

She  stood  looking  at  the  slate  and  thinking  for  a  mo 
ment.  Then  her  face  settled  into  a  hard  calm. 

"  Letty  won't  come  back — she  won't  never  come  back. 
I  might  as  well  cipher  as  anything  else." 

She  went  across  the  room,  got  the  slate  and  pencil,  and 
returned  to  her  seat.  She  had  been  ciphering  for  a  minute 
or  so  when  a  sound  outside  caused  her  to  start  and  stop. 
She  sat  with  mouth  open  and  chin  trembling,  listening. 
The  sound  came  nearer ;  it  was  at  the  door.  Of  all  the 
sweet  sounds  which  had  smote  that  old  woman's  ears  since 
her  birth — songs  of  birds,  choral  hymns,  Sabbath  bells — 
there  had  been  none  so  sweet  as  this.  It  was  Letty's  thin, 
girlish  treble  just  outside  the  door  which  she  heard. 

For  a  second,  as  she  sat  listening,  her  face  was  rapt,  an 
gelic  ;  in  spite  of  its  sallowness  and  wrinkles  it  might  have 


380  AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN. 

figured  in  an  altar-piece.  Then  it  changed.  The  slate  was 
in  her  lap.  What  would  Letty  think? 

It  was  all  passing  swiftly;  the  door-latch  rattled;  she 
slipped  the  slate  under  her  gingham  apron,  and  sat  still. 

"Oh,  poor  grandma!"  cried  Letty,  running  in;  "you've 
been  frightened  'most  to  death  about  me,  haven't  you  ?n 
She  bent  over  her  grandmother  and  laid  her  soft,  pretty 
cheek  against  hers. 

"Oh,  Letty!  I  didn't  think  you'd  ever  come  back.'' 

"  I  have ;  but  I  did  have  the  dreadfulest  time.  I  got 
carried  'way  out  West  on  an  express  train.  Just  think  of 
it !  I  got  on  the  wrong  train  while  I  was  waiting  for  Liz 
zie.  I  was  frightened  almost  to  death.  But  Mr.  Plainfield 
telegraphed  ahead.  He  found  out  where  I  was  going,  and 
they  took  me  to  a  hotel ;  and  then  he  came  for  me.  You 
haven't  said  anything  to  Mr.  Plainfield,  grandma." 

The  young  man  was  standing  smiling  behind  Letty.  She 
looked  astonished  when  her  grandmother  did  not  rise  to 
speak  to  him,  but  sat  perfectly  still  as  she  uttered  some 
broken  thanks. 

"  Why,  grandma,  you  ain't  sick,  are  you  ?"  said  she. 

"  No — I  ain't  sick,"  said  her  grandmother,  with  a  meek 
tone. 

When  Mr.  Plainfield  left,  in  a  few  moments,  Letty  gave  a 
half-defiant,  half-ashamed  glance  at  her  grandmother,  and 
followed  him  out,  closing  the  door. 

When  she  returned  Mrs.  Torry  was  standing  by  the  table 
pouring  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  her.  The  slate  was  in  its  usual 
place  on  the  bureau. 

"  Grandma,"  said  Letty,  blushing  innocently,  "  I  thought 
I  ought  to  say  something  to  Mr.  Plainfield,  you  know.  I 
hadn't,  and  I  knew  he  heard  what  I  said  to  Lizzie  that  day. 


AN  OLD  ARITHMETICIAN.  381 

I  thought  I  ought  to  ask  his  pardon,  when  he  had  done  so 
much  for  me.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  I  do  like  him. 
There's  other  things  besides  doing  arithmetic  examples." 

"  I  guess  there  is,  child.  Them  things  is  all  second.  I 
think  JLjd_railier  have  a  man  who  hadn't  got  any  special 
faculty,  if  I  was  goin'  to  git  married." 

"  Nobody  said  anything  about  getting  married,  grandma." 

Pretty  soon  Letty  went  to  bed.  She  was  worn  out  with 
her  adventures. 

"Ain't  you  going  too,  grandma?"  asked  she,  turning 
around,  lamp  in  hand,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Pretty  soon,  child  ;  pretty  soon.  I've — got  a  little  some- 
thin'  I  want  to  do  first." 

The  grandmother  sat  up  till  nearly  morning  working  over 
the  problem.  Once  in  a  while  she  would  lay  down  her  slate 
and  climb  up-stairs  and  peep  into  Letty's  little,  peaceful 
girl-chamber  to  see  if  she  were  safe. 

"  If  I  have  got  that  clear  child  safe,  an'  ain't  lost  my  fac 
ulty,  it's  more'n  I  deserve,"  muttered  she,  as  she  took  her 
slate  the  last  time. 

The  next  evening  the  minister  came  over.  "  So,  Letty's 
come,"  he  said,  when  Mrs.  Torry  opened  the  door. 

"  Yes,  Letty's  come,  and— I've  got  that  sum  you  gave  me 
done." 

25 

'     f 


A  CONFLICT  ENDED. 

IN  Acton  there  were  two  churches,  a  Congregational  and 
a  Baptist.  They  stood  on  opposite  sides  of  the  road,  and 
the  Baptist  edifice  was  a  little  farther  down  than  the 
other.  On  Sunday  morning  both  bells  were  ringing.  The 
Baptist  bell  was  much  larger,  and  followed  quickly  on  the 
soft  peal  of  the  Congregational  with  a  heavy  brazen  clang 
which  vibrated  a  good  while.  The  people  went  flocking 
through  the  street  to  the  irregular  jangle  of  tlje  bells.  It 
was  a  very  hot  day,  and  the  sun  beat  down  heavily;  para 
sols  were  bobbing  over  all  the  ladies'  heads. 

More  people  went  into  the  Baptist  church,  whose  society 
was  much  the  larger  of  the  two.  It  had  been  for  the  last 
ten  years — ever  since  the  Congregational  had  settled  a  new 
minister.  His  advent  had  divided  the  church,  and  a  good 
third  of  the  congregation  had  gone  over  to  the  Baptist  breth 
ren,  with  whom  they  still  remained. 

It  is  probable  that  many  of  them  passed  their  old  sanctu 
ary  to-day  with  the  original  stubborn  animosity  as  active  as 
ever  in  their  hearts,  and  led  their  families  up  the  Baptist 
steps  with  the  same  strong  spiritual  pull  of  indignation. 

One  old  lady,  who  had  made  herself  prominent  on  the 
opposition,  trotted  by  this  morning  with  the  identical  wiry 
vehemence  which  she  had  manifested  ten  years  ago.  She 


A   CONFLICT  ENDED.  383 

wore  a  full  black  silk  skirt,  which  she  held  up  inanely  in 
front,  and  allowed  to  trail  in  the  dust  in  the  rear. 

Some  of  the  stanch  Congregational  people  glanced  at  her 
amusedly.  One  fleshy,  fair-faced  girl  in  blue  muslin  said  to 
her  companion,  with  a  laugh :  "  See  that  old  lady  trailing 
her  best  black  silk  by  to  the  Baptist.  Ain't  it  ridiculous 
how  she  keeps  on  showing  out  ?  I  heard  some  one  talking 
about  it  yesterday." 

"  Yes." 

The  girl  colored  up  confusedly.  "  Oh  dear  !"  she  thought 
to  herself.  The  lady  with  her  had  an  unpleasant  history 
connected  with  this  old  church  quarrel.  She  was  a  small, 
bony  woman  in  a  shiny  purple  silk,  which  was  strained  very 
:tightly  across  her  sharp  shoulder-blades.  Her  bonnet  was 
quite  elaborate  with  flowers  and  plumes,  as  was  also  her 
companion's.  In  fact,  she  was  the  village  milliner,  and  the 
girl  was  her  apprentice. 

When  the  two  went  up  the  church  steps,  they  passed  a 
man  of  about  fifty,  who  was  sitting  thereon  well  to  one  side. 
He  had  a  singular  face — a  mild  forehead,  a  gently  curving 
mouth,  and  a  terrible  chin,  with  a  look  of  strength  in  it  that 
might  have  abashed  mountains.  He  held  his  straw  hat  in 
his  hand,  and  the  sun  was  shining  full  on  his  bald  head. 

The  milliner  half  stopped,  and  gave  an  anxious  glance  at 
him  ;  then  passed  on.  In  the  vestibule  she  stopped  again. 

"  You  go  right  in,  Margy,"  she  said  to  the  girl.  "  I'll  be 
along  in  a  minute." 

"  Where  be  you  going,  Miss  Barney  ?" 

"You  go  right  in.     I'll  be  there  in  a  minute." 

Margy  entered  the  audience-room  then,  as  if  fairly  brushed 
in  by  the  imperious  wave  of  a  little  knotty  hand,  and  Esther 
Barney  stood  waiting  until  the  rush  of  entering  people  was 


384  A  CONFLICT  ENDED. 

over.  Then  she  stepped  swiftly  back  to  the  side  of  the  man 
seated  on  the  steps.  She  spread  her  large  black  parasol 
deliberately,  and  extended  the  handle  towards  him. 

"  No,  no,  Esther ;  I  don't  want  it— I  don't  want  it." 

"  If  you're  determined  on  setting  out  in  this  broiling  sun, 
Marcus  Woodman,  you  jest  take  this  parasol  of  mine  an' 
use  it." 

"  I  don't  want  your  parasol,  Esther.     I — " 

"  Don't  you  say  it  over  again.     Take  it." 

11 1  won't— not  if  I  don't  want  to." 

"  You'll  get  a  sun-stroke." 

"  That's  my  own  lookout." 

"  Marcus  Woodman,  you  take  it." 

She  threw  all  the  force  there  was  in  her  intense,  nervous 

nature  into  her  tone  and  look;  but  she  failed  in  her  attempt, 

/  because  of  the  utter  difference  in  quality  between  her  own 

I    will  and  that  with  which  she  had  to  deal.     They  were  on 

such  different  planes  that  hers  slid  by  his  with  its  own  mo- 

.       mentum  ;  there  could  be  no  contact  even  of  antagonism  be- 

\ tween  them.  He  sat  there  rigid,  every  line  of  his  face  stif- 

ened  into  an  icy  obstinacy.  She  held  out  the  parasol  tow 
ards  him  like  a  weapon. 

Finally  she  let  it  drop  at  her  side,  her  whole  expression 
changed. 

"  Marcus,"  said  she,  "  how's  your  mother  ?" 

He  started.     "  Pretty  well,  thank  you,  Esther." 

"  She's  out  to  meeting,  then  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I've  been  a-thinking — I  ain't  drove  jest  now — that  may 
be  I'd  come  over  an'  see  her  some  day  this  week." 

He  rose  politely  then.  "  Wish  you  would,  Esther. 
Mother'd  be  real  pleased,  I  know." 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED.  385 

"Well,  I'll  see — Wednesday,  p'rhaps,  if  I  ain't  too  busy. 
I  must  go  in  now ;  they're  'most  through  singing." 

"  Esther—" 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  stop  any  longer,  Marcus." 

"  About  the  parasol — thank  you  jest  the  same  if  I  don't 
take  it.  Of  course  you  know  I  can't  set  out  here  holding  a 
parasol ;  folks  would  laugh.  But  I'm  obliged  to  you  all 
the  same.  Hope  I  didn't  say  anything  to  hurt  your  feel- 
ings?" 

"  Oh  no ;  why,  no,  Marcus.  Of  course  I  don't  want  to 
make  you  take  it  if  you  don't  want  it.  I  don't  know  but 
it  would  look  kinder  queer,  come  to  think  of  it.  Oh  dear ! 
they  are  through  singing." 

"  Say,  Esther,  I  clon't  know  but  I  might  as  well  take  that 
parasol,  if  you'd  jest  as  soon.  The  sun  is  pretty  hot,  an'  I 
might  get  a  headache.  I  forgot  my  umbrella,  to  tell  the 
truth." 

"  I  might  have  known  better  than  to  have  gone  at  him 
the  way  I  did,"  thought  Esther  to  herself,  when  she  was 
seated  at  last  in  the  cool  church  beside  Margy.  "  Seems 
as  if  I  might  have  got  used  to  Marcus  Woodman  by  this 
time." 

She  did  not  see  him  when  she  came  out  of  church  •  but 
a  little  boy  in  the  vestibule  handed  her  the  parasol,  with 
the  remark,  "  Mr.  Woodman  said  for  me  to  give  this  to 
you." 

She  and  Margy  passed  down  the  street  towards  home. 
Going  by  the  Baptist  church,  they  noticed  a  young  man 
standing  by  the  entrance.  He  stared  hard  at  Margy. 

She  began  to  laugh  after  they  had  passed  him.  "Did 
you  see  that  fellow  stare  ?"  said  she.  "  Hope  he'll  know 
me  next  time." 


386  A    CONFLICT  ENDED. 

"  That's  George  Elliot ;  he's  that  old  lady's  son  you  was 
speaking  about  this  morning." 

"Well,  that's  enough  for  me." 

"  He's  a  real  good,  steady  young  man." 

Margy  sniffed. 

"  P'rhaps  you'll  change  your  mind  some  day."v 

She  did,  and  speedily,  too.  That  glimpse  of  Margy 
Wilson's  pretty,  new  face — for  she  was  a  stranger  in  the 
town — had  been  too  much  for  George  Elliot.  He  obtained 
an  introduction,  and  soon  was  a  steady  visitor  at  Esther 
Barney's  house.  Margy  fell  in  love  with  him  easily.  She 
had  never  had  much  attention  from  the  young  men,  and 
he  was  an  engaging  young  fellow,  small  and  bright-eyed, 
though  with  a  nervous  persistency  like  his  mother's  in  his 
manner. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  it  an  understood  thing,"  Margy  told 
Esther,  after  her  lover  had  become  constant  in  his  atten 
tions,  "  that  I'm  going  with  George,  and  I  ain't  going  with 
his  mother.  I  can't  bear  that  old  woman." 

But  poor  Margy  found  that  it  was  not  so  easy  to  thrust 
determined  old  age  off  the  stage,  even  when  young  Love 
was  flying  about  so  fast  on  his  butterfly  wings  that  he 
seemed  to  multiply  himself,  and  there  was  no  room  for  any 
thing  else,  because  the  air  was  so  full  of  Loves.  That  old 
mother,  with  her  trailing  black  skirt  and  her  wiry  obstinacy, 
trotted  as  unwaveringly  through  the  sweet  stir  as  a  ghost 
through  a  door. 

One  Monday  morning  Margy  could  not  eat  any  break 
fast,  and  there  were  tear  stains  around  her  blue  eyes. 

"  Why,  what's-  the  matter,  Margy  ?"  asked  Esther,  eying 
her  across  the  little  kitchen-table. 

"  Nothing's  the  matter.     I  ain't  hungry  any  to  speak  of, 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED.  387 

that's  all.  I  guess  I'll  go  right  to  work  on  Mis'  Fuller's 
bonnet." 

"  I'd  try  an'  eat  something  if  I  was  you.  Be  sure  you 
cut  that  velvet  straight,  if  you  go  to  work  on  it." 

When  the  two  were  sitting  together  at  their  work  in  the 
little  room  back  of  the  shop,  Margy  suddenly  threw  her 
scissors  down.  "  There  !"  said  she,  "  I've  done  it ;  I  knew 
I  should.  I've  cut  this  velvet  bias.  I  knew  I  should  cut 
everything  bias  I  touched  to-day." 

There  was  a  droll  pucker  on  her  mouth  ;  then  it  began 
to  quiver.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 
"Oh,  dear,  dear,  clear!" 

"Margy  Wilson,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  George  and  I — had  a  talk  last  night.  .We've  broke  the 
engagement,  an'  it's  killing  me.  An'  now  I've  cut  this  vel 
vet  bias.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear,  dear!" 

"For  the  land's  sake,  don't  mind  anything  about  the 
velvet.  What's  come  betwixt  you  an'  George  ?" 

"  His  mother — horrid  old  thing !  He  said  she'd  got  to 
live  with  us,  and  I  said  she  shouldn't.  Then  he  said  he 
wouldn't  marry  any  girl  that  wasn't  willing  to  live  with  his 
mother,  and  I  said  he  wouldn't  ever  marry  me,  then.  If 
George  ElHot^thinks  more  of  his  mother  than  he  does  of 
me,  IK:  can  have  her.  I  don't  care.  I'll  show  him  I  can 
get  along  without  him." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  Margy.  I'm  real  sorry  about  it. 
George  Elliot's  a  good,  likely  young  man  ;  but  if  you  didn't 
want  to  live  with  his  mother,  it  was  better  to  say  so  right  in 
the  beginning.  And  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  you  much  : 
she's  pretty  set  in  her  ways," 

"  I  guess  she  is.  I  never  could  bear  her.  I  guess  he'll 
find  out—" 


3  88  A   CO  NFL  1C  7"  ENDED. 

Margy  dried  her  eyes  defiantly,  and  took  up  the  velvet 
again.  "  I've  spoilt  this  velvet.  I  don't  see  why  being  dis 
appointed  in  love  should  affect  a  girl  so's  to  make  her  cut 

i    •  m'i 

bias. 

There  was  a  whimsical  element  in  Margy  which  seemed 
to  roll  uppermost  along  with  her  grief. 

Esther  looked  a  little  puzzled.  "  Never  mind  the  velvet, 
child  :  it  ain't  much,  anyway."  She  began  tossing  over 
some  ribbons  to  cover  her  departure  from  her  usual  reti 
cence.  "  I'm  real  sorry  about  it,  Margy.  Such  things  are 
hard  to  bear,  but  they  can  be  lived  through.  I  know  some 
thing  about  it  myself.  You  knew  I'd  had  some  of  this  kind 
of  trouble,  didn't  you?" 

"  About  Mr.  Woodman,  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  about  Marcus  Woodman.  I'll  tell  you  what  'tis, 
Margy  Wilson,  you've  got  one  thing  to  be  thankful  for,  and 
that  is  that  there  ain't  anything  ridickerlous  about  this  affair 
of  yourn.  That  makes  it  the  hardest -of  anything,  accord 
ing  to  my  mind — when  you  know  that  everybody's  laughing, 
and  you  can  hardly  help  laughing  yourself,  though  you  feel 
'most  ready  to  die." 

"  Ain't  that  Mr.  Woodman  crazy  ?" 

"  No,  he  ain't  crazy  ;  he's  got  too  much  will  for  his  com 
mon-sense,  that's  all,  and  the  will  teeters  the  sense  a  little 
too  far  into  the  air.  I  see  all  through  it  from  the  beginning. 
I  could  read  Marcus  Woodman  jest  like  a  book." 

"  I  don't  see  how  in  the  world  you  ever  come  to  like  such 
a  man." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  love's  the  strongest  when  there  ain't  any 
good  reason  for  it.  They  say  it  is.  I  can't  say  as  I  ever 
really  admired  Marcus  Woodman  much.  I  always  see  right 
through  him  ;  but  that  didn't  hinder  my  thinking  so  much 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED.  389 

of  him  that  I  never  felt  as  if  I  could  marry  any  other  man. 
And  I've  had  chances,  though  I  shouldn't  want  you  to  say  so." 

"  You  turned  him  off  because  he  went  to  sitting  on  the 
church  steps  ?" 

"  Course  I  did.  Do  you  s'pose  I  was  going  to  marry  a 
man  who  made  a  laughing-stock  of  himself  that  way  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  ever  come  to  do  it.  It's  the  funniest 
thing  I  ever  heard  of." 

"  I  know  it.  It  seems  so  silly  nobody  'd  believe  it. 
Well,  all  there  is  about  it,  Marcus  Woodman's  got  so  much 
mulishness  in  him  it  makes  him  almost  miraculous.  You 
see,  he  got  up  an'  spoke  in  that  church  meeting  when  they 
had  such  a  row  about  Mr.  Morton's  being  settled  here — 
Marcus  was  awful  set  again'  him.  I  never  could  see  any 
reason  why,  and  I  don't  think  he  could.  He  said  Mr.  Mor 
ton  wa'irt  doctrinal;  that  was  what  they  all  said;  but  I 
don't  believe  half  of  'em  knew  what  doctrinal  was.  I  never 
could  see  why  Mr.  Morion  waVt  as  good  as  most  ministers 
—enough  sight  better  than  them  that  treated  him  so,  any 
way.  I  always  felt  that  they  was  really  setting  him  in  a 
pulpit  high  over  their  heads  by  using  him  the  way  they  did, 
though  they  didn't  know  it. 

"  Well,  Marcus  spoke  in  that  church  meeting,  an'  he  kept 
getting  more  and  more  set  every  word  he  said.  He  always 
had  a  way  of  saying  things  over  and  over,  as  if  he  was  making 
steps  out  of 'em,  an'  raising  of  himself  up  on  'em,  till  there 
was  no  moving  him  at  all.  And  he  did  that  night.  Finally, 
when  he  was  up  real  high,  he  said,  as  for  him,  if  Mr.  Morton 
was  settled  over  that  church,  he'd  never  go  inside  the  door 
himself  as  long  as  he  lived.  Somebody  spoke  out  then — I 
never  quite  knew  who  'twas,  though  I  suspected — an'  says, 
'  You'll  have  to  set  on  the  steps,  then,  Brother  Woodman.'  • 


390  A   CONFLICT  ENDED. 

"  Everybody  laughed  at  that  but  Marcus.  He  didn't  see 
nothing  to  laugh  at.  He  spoke  out  awful  set,  kinder  grit 
ting  his  teeth,  '  I  will  set  on  the  steps  fifty  years  before  I'll 
go  into  this  house  if  that  man's  settled  here.' 

"I  couldn't  believe  he'd  really  do  it.  We  were  going  to 
be  married  that  spring,  an'  it  did  seem  as  if  he  might  listen 
to  me ;  but  he  wouldn't.  The  Sunday  Mr.  Morton  begun 
to  preach,  he  begun  to  set  on  them  steps,  an'  he's  set  there 
ever  since,  in  all  kinds  of  weather.  It's  a  wonder  it  'ain't 
killed  him  ;  but  I  guess  it's  made  him  -tough." 

"  Why,  didn't  he  feel  bad  when  you  wouldn't  marry  him  ?" 

"  Feel  bad  ?  Of  course  he  did.  He  took  on  terribly. 
But  it  didn't  make  any  difference ;  he  wouldn't  give  jjx  a 
hair's  breadth.  I  declare  it  did  seem  as  if  I  should  die. 
His  mother  felt  awfully  too — she's  a  real  good  woman.  I 
don't  know  what  Marcus  would  have  clone  without  her.  He 
wants  a  sight  of  tending  and  waiting  on  ;  he's  dreadful  ba 
byish  in  some  ways,  though  you  wouldn't  think  it. 

"Well,  it's  all  over  now,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I've 
got  over  it  a  good  deal,  though  sometimes  it  makes  me  jest 
as  mad  as  ever  to  see  him  setting  there.  But  I  try  to  be 
reconciled,  and  I  get  along  jest  as  well,  mebbe,  as  if  I'd  hacj 
him — I  don't  know.  I  fretted  more  at  first  than  there  was 
any  sense  in,  and  I  hope  yon  won't." 

"  I  ain't  going  to  fret  at  all,  Miss  Barney.  I  may  cut  bias 
for  a  while,  but  I  sha'n't  do  anything  worse." 

"  How  you  do  talk,  child  !" 

A  good  deal  of  it  was  talk  with  Margy ;  she  had  not  as 
much  courage  as  her  words  proclaimed.  She  was  capable 
of  a  strong  temporary  resolution,  but  of  no  enduring  one. 
She  gradually  weakened  as  the  days  without  her  lover  went 
on,  and  one  Saturday  night  she  succumbed  entirely.  There 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED. 


391 


was  quite  a  rush  of  business,  but  through  it  all  she  caught 
a  conversation  between  some  customers — two  pretty  young 
girls. 

"Who  was  that  with  you  last  night  at  the  concert  ?" 

"That — oh,  that  was  George  Elliot.  Didn't  you  know 
him  ?" 

"He's  got  another  girl,"  thought  Margy,  with  a  great 
throb. 

The  next  Sunday  night,  coming  out  of  meeting  with  Miss 
Barney,  she  left  her  suddenly.  George  Elliot  was  one  of  a 
waiting  line  of  young  men  in  the  vestibule.  She  went 
straight  up  to  him.  He  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment,  his 
dark  face  turning  red. 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Wilson,"  he  stammered  out,  finally. 

"Good-evening,"  she  whispered,  and  stood  looking  up  at 
him  piteously.  She  was  white  and  trembling. 

At  last  he  stepped  forward  suddenly  and  offered  her  his 
arm.  In  spite  of  his  resentment,  he  could  not  put  her  to 
open  shame  before  all  his  mates,  who  were  staring  curi 
ously. 

When  they  were  out  in  the  dark,  cool  street,  he  bent  over 
her.  "  Why,  Margy,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  George,  let  her  live  with  us,  please.  I  want  her 
to.  I  know  I  can  get  along  with  her  if  I  try.  I'll  do  every 
thing  I  can.  Please  let  her  live  with  us." 

"  Who's  her  T ' 

"Your  mother." 

"  And  I  suppose  us  is  you  and  I  ?  I  thought  that  was 
all  over,  Margy  ;  ain't  it  ?" 

"Oh,  George,  I  am  sorry  I  treated  you  so." 

"  And  you  are  willing  to  let  mother  live  with  us  now  ?" 

"  I'll  do  anything.     Oh,  George  1" 


392  A    CONFLICT  ENDED. 

11  Don't  cry,  Margy.  There — nobody's  looking— give  us 
a  kiss.  It's  been  a  long  time ;  ain't  it,  dear  ?  So  you've 
made  up  your  mind  that  you're  willing  to  let  mother  live 
with  us  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  she  ever  will,  Margy.  She's  about 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  and  live  with  my  brother  Edward, 
whether  or  no.  So  you  won't  be  troubled  with  her.  I  dare 
say  she  might  have  been  a  little  of  a  trial  as  she  grew  older." 

"You  didn't  tell  me." 

"  I  thought  it  was  your  place  to  give  in,  dear." 

"Yes,  it  was,  George." 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  you  did.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  dear,  I 
don't  know  how  you've  felt,  but  I've  been  pretty  miserable 
lately." 

"  Poor  George !" 

They  passed  Esther  Barney's  house,  and  strolled  along 
half  a  mile  farther.  When  they  returned,  and  Margy  stole 
softly  into  the  house  and  up-stairs,  it  was  quite  late,  and 
Esther  had  gone  to  bed.  Margy  saw  the  light  was  not  out 
in  her  room,  so  she  peeped  in.  She  could  not  wait  till 
morning  to  tell  her. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  said  Esther,  looking  upfet  her 
out  of  her  pillows. 

"Oh,  I  went  to  walk  a  little  way  with  George." 

"Then  you've  made  up?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  his  mother  going  to  live  with  you  ?" 
"  No ;  I  guess  not.     She's  going  to  live  with  Edward. 
But  I  told  him  I  was  willing  she  should.     I've  about  made 
up  my  mind  it's  a  woman's  place  to  give  in  mostly.     I 
s'pose  you  think  I'm  an  awful  fool." 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED.  393 

"No,  I  don't ;  no,  I  don't,  Margy.  I'm  real  glad  it's  all 
right  betwixt  you  and  George.  I've  seen  you  weren't  very 
happy  lately." 

They  talked  a  little  longer;  then  Margy  said  "Good 
night,"  going  over  to  Esther  and  kissing  her.  Being  so 
rich  in  love  made  her  generous  with  it.  She  looked  down 
sweetly  into  the  older  woman's  thin,  red-cheeked  face.  "  I 
wish  you  were  as  happy  as  I,"  said  she.  "  I  wish  you  and 
Mr.  Woodman  could  make  up  too." 

"  That's  an  entirely  different  matter.  I  couldn't  give  in 
in  such  a  thing  as  that." 

Margy  looked  at  her  ;  she  was  not  subtle,  but  she  had 
just  come  out  triumphant  through  innocent  love  and  sub 
mission,  and  used  the  wisdom  she  had  gained  thereby. 

"  Don't  you  believe,"  said  she,  "  iLyou,  was  to  give  in  the 
way  I  did,  that  he  would  ?" 

Esther  started  up  with  an  astonished  air.  That  had  nev 
er  occurred  to  her  before.  "  Oh,  I  don't  believe  he  would. 
You  don't  know  him  ;  he's  awful  set.  Besides,  I  don't 
know  but  I'm  better  off  the  way  it  is." 

In  spite  of  herself,  however,  she  could  not  help  thinking 
of  Margy's  suggestion.  Would  he  give  in  ?  She  was  hard 
ly  disposed  to  run  the  risk.  With  her  peculiar  cast  of  mind, 
her  feeling  for  the  ludicrous  so  keen  that  it  almost  amount 
ed  to  a  special  sense,  and  her  sensitiveness  to  ridicule,  it 
would  have  been  easier  for  her  to  have  married  a  man  un 
der  the  shadow  of  a  crime  than  one  who  was  the  deserving 
target  of  gibes  and  jests.  Besides,  she  told  herself,  it  was 
possible  that  he  had  changed  his  mind,  that  he  no  longer 
cared  for  her.  How  could  she  make  the  first  overtures  ? 
She  had  not  Margy's  impulsiveness  and  innocence  of  youth 
to  excuse  her. 


394  A   CONFLICT  ENDED. 

Also,  she  was  partly  influenced  by  the  reason  which  she 
had  given  Margy  :  she  was  not  so  very  sure  that  it  would 
be  best  for  her  to  take  any  such  step.  She  was  more  fixed 
irft'he  peace  and  pride  of  her  old  maidenhood  than  she 
had  realized,  and  was  more  shy  of  disturbing  it.  Her  com 
fortable  meals,  her  tidy  housekeeping,  and  her  prosperous 
work  had  become  such  sources  of  satisfaction  to  her  that 
she  was  almost  wedded  to  them,  and  jealous  of  any  inter 
ference. 

So  it  is  doubtful  if  there  would  have  been  any  change  in 
the  state  of  affairs  if  Marcus  Woodman's  mother  had  not 
died  towards  spring.  Esther  was  greatly  distressed  about  it. 

"  I  don't  see  what  Marcus  is  going  to  do,"  she  told  Margy. 
"  He  ain't  any  fitter  to  take  care  of  himseff  than  a  baby,  and 
he  won't  have  any  housekeeper,  they  say." 

One  evening,  after  Marcus's  mother  had  been  dead  about 
three  weeks,  Esther  went  over  there.  Margy  had  gone  out 
to  walk  with  George,  so  nobody  knew.  When  she  reached 
the  house — a  white  cottage  on  a  hill — she  saw  a  light  in 
the  kitchen  window. 

"  He's  there,"  said  she.  She  knocked  on  the  door  softly. 
Marcus  shuffled  over  to  it — he  was  in  his  stocking  feet — 
and  opened  it. 

"  Good-evening,  Marcus,"  said  she,  speaking  first. 

"  Good-evening." 

"  I  hadn't  anything  special  to  do  this  evening,  so  I  thought 
I'd  look  in  a  minute  and  see  how  you  was  getting  along." 

"  I  ain't  getting  along  very  well ;  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Come  right  in." 

When  she  was  seated  opposite  him  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
she  surveyed  him  and  his  surroundings  pityingly.  Every 
thing  had  an  abject  air  of  forlornness  ;  there  was  neither 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED.  395 

tidiness  nor  comfort.  After  a  few  words  she  rose  energet 
ically.  "See  here,  Marcus,"  said  she,  "you  jest  fill  up 
that  tea-kettle,  and  I'm  going  to  slick  up  here  a  -little  for 
you  while  I  stay." 

"  Now,  Esther,  I  don't  feel  as  if—" 

"  Don't  you  say  nothing.  Here's  the  tea-kettle.  I  might 
jest  as  well  be  doing  that  as  setting  still." 

He  watched  her,  in  a  way  that  made  her  nervous,  as  she 
flew  about  putting  things  to  rights ;  but  she  said  to  herself 
that  this  was  easier  than  sitting  still,  and  gradually  leading 
up  to  the  object  for  which  she  had  come.  She  kept  won 
dering  if  she  could  ever  accomplish  it.  When  the  room  was 
in  order,  finally,  she  sat  down  again,  with  a  strained-up  look 
in  her  face. 

"  Marcus,"  said  she,  "  I  might  as  well  begin.  There  was 
something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  to-night." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  I've  been  thinking  some  lately  about  how  matters  used 
to  be  betwixt  you  an'  me,  and  it's  jest  possible — I  don't 
know— but  I  might  have  been  a  little  more  patient  than  I 
was.  I  don't  know  as  I'd  feel  the  same  way  now  if — " 

"  Oh,  Esther,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  ain't  going  to  tell  you,  Marcus  Woodman,  if  you  can't 
find  out.  I've  said  full  enough ;  more'n  I  ever  thought  I 
should." 

He  was  an  awkward  man,  but  he  rose  and  threw  himself 
on  his  knees  at  her  feet  with  all  the  grace  of  complete 
unconsciousness  of  action.  "  Oh,  Esther,  you  don't  mean, 
do  you? — you  don't  mean  that  you'd  be  willing  to — marry 
me?" 

"No  ;  not  if  you  don't  get  up.     You  look  ridickerlous." 

"  Esther,  do  you  mean  it  ?" 


396  A    CONFLICT  ENDED. 

"Yes.     Now  get  up." 

"You  ain't  thinking — I  can't  give  up  what  we  had  the 
trouble  about,  any  more  now  than  I  could  then." 

"Ain't  I  said  once  that  wouldn't  make  any  difference?" 

At  that  he  put  his  head  down  on  her  knees  and  sobbed. 

"  Do,  for  mercy  sake,  stop.  Somebody  '11  be  coming  in. 
'Tain't  as  if  we  was  a  young  couple." 

"  I  ain't  going  to  till  I've  told  you  about  it,  Esther.  You 
ain't  never  really  understood.  In  the  first  of  it,  we  was 
both  mad  ;  but  we  ain't  now,  and  we  can  talk  it  over.  Oh, 
Esther,  I've  had  such  an  awful  life !  I've  looked  at  you, 
and —  Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear  !" 

"  Marcus,  you  scare  me  to  death  crying  so." 

"  I  won't.  Esther,  look  here — it's  the  gospel  truth  :  I 
ain't  a  thing  again'  Mr.  Morton  now." 

"  1* hen  why  on  earth  don't  you  go  into  the  meeting-house 
and  behave  yourself?" 

"  Don't  you  suppose  I  would  if  I  could?  I  can't,  Esther 
—I  can't." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  can't." 

"  Do  you  s'pose  I've  took  any  comfort  sitting  there  on 
them  steps  in  the  winter  snows  an'  the  summer  suns  ?  Do 
you  s'pose  I've  took  any  comfort  not  marrying  you?  Don't 
you  s'pose  I'd  given  all  I  was  worth  any  time  the  last  ten 
year  to  have  got  up  an'  walked  into  the  church  with  the 
rest  of  the  folks  ?" 

"  Well,  I'll  own,  Marcus,  I  don't  see  why  you  couldn't 
if  you  wanted  to." 

"  I  ain't  sure  as  I  see  myself,  Esther.  All  I  know  is  I 
can't  make  myself  give  it  up.  I  can't.  I  ain't  made  strong 
enough  to." 

"  As  near  as  I  can  make  out,  you've  taken  to  sitting  on 


A    CONFLICT  ENDED.  397 

the  church  steps  the  way  other  men  take  to  smoking  and     ' 
drinking." 

"  I  don't  know  but  you're  right,  Esther,  though  I  hadn't 
thought  of  it  in  that  way  before." 

"  Well,  you  must  try  to  overcome  it." 

"  I  never  can,  Esther.  It  ain't  right  for  me  to  let  you 
think  I  can." 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  about  it  any  more  to-night.  It's 
time  I  was  going  home." 

"Esther — did  you  mean  it?" 

"  Mean  what  ?" 

"That  you'd  marry  me  any  way?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  Now  do  get  up.  I  do  hate  to  see  you 
looking  so  silly." 

Esther  had  a  new  pearl-colored  silk  gown,  and  a  little 
mantle  like  it,  and  a  bonnet  trimmed  with  roses  and  plumes, 
and  she  and  Marcus  were  married  in  June. 

The  Sunday  on  which  she  came  out  a  bride  they  were 
late  at  church  ;  but  late  as  it  was,  curious  people  were  lin 
gering  by  the  steps  to  watch  them.  What  would  they  do? 
Would  Marcus  Woodman  enter  that  church  door  which 
his  awful  will  had  guarded  for  him  so  long  ? 

They  walked  slowly  up  the  steps  between  the  watching 
people.  When  they  came  to  the  place  where  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  sit,  Marcus  stopped  short  and  looked  down  at  his 
wife  with  an  agonized  face. 

"  Oh,  Esther,  I've— got— to  stop." 

"Well,  we'll  both  sit  down  here,  then." 

"  You  r 

"Yes;  I'm  willing." 

"  No  ;  you  go  in." 

"  No,  Marcus  ;  I  sit  with  you  on  our  wedding  Sunday." 
26 


398  A    CONFLICT  ENDED. 

Her  sharp,  middle-aged  face  as  she  looked  up  at  him 
was  fairly  heroic.  This  was  all  that  she  could  do  :  her 
last  weapon  was  used.  If  this  failed,  she  would  accept  the 
chances  with  which  she  had  married,  and  before  the  eyes 
of  all  these  tittering  people  she  would  sit  down  at  his  side 
on  these  church  steps.  She  was  determined,  and  she  would 
not  weaken.  \ 

He  stood  for  a  moment  staring  into  her  face.  He  trem 
bled  so  that  the  bystanders-  noticed  it.  He  actually  leaned 
over  towards  his  old  seat  as  if  wire  ropes  were  pulling  him 
down  upon  it.  Then  he  stood  up  straight,  like  a  man,  and 
walked  through  the  church  door  with  his  wife. 

The  people  followed.  Not  one  of  them  even  smiled. 
They  had  felt  the  pathos  in  the  comedy. 

The  sitters  in  the  pews  watched  Marcus  wonderingly  as 
he  went  up  the  aisle  with  Esther.  He  looked  strange  to 
them  ;  he  had  almost  the  grand  mien  of  a  conqueror. 


A   PATIENT  WAITER. 

S 

1 "  BE  sure  you  sweep  it  clean,  Lily." 
"Yes,  'm.     I  ain't  leavin'  a  single  stone  on  it." 
"  I'm  'most  afraid  to  trust  you.     I  think  likely  as  not  he 
may  come  to-day,  an'  not  wait  to  write.     It's  so  pleasant,  I 
feel  jest  as  if  somebody  was  comin'." 

"  I'm  a-svveepin'  it  real  clean,  Aunt  Fidelia." 
"Well,  be  pertickler.     An'  you'd  better  sweep  the  side 
walk  a  little  ways  in  front  of  the  yard.    I  saw  a  lot  of  loose 
stones  on  it  yesterday." 
"  Yes,  'm." 

The  broom  was  taller  than  the  child,  but  she  was  sturdy, 
and  she  wielded  it  with  joyful  vigor.  Down  the  narrow 
path  between  the  rows  of  dahlias  she  went.  Her  smooth 
yellow  head  shone  in  the  sun.  Her  long  blue  gingham 
apron  whisked  about  her  legs  as  she  swept 

The  dahlias  were  in  full  bloom,  and  they  nodded  their 
golden  and  red  balls  gently  when  the  child  jostled  them. 
Beyond  the  dahlias  on  either  side  were  zinnias  and  candy 
tuft  and  marigolds.  The  house  was  very  small.  There  was 
only  one  window  at  the  side  of  the  front  door.  A  curved 
green  trellis  stood  against  the  little  space  of  house  wall  pn 
the  other  side,  and  a  yellow  honeysuckle  climbed  on  it. 

Almy  stood  in  the  door  with  a  cloth  in  her  hand. 


400  A  PATIENT  WAITER. 

She  had  been  dusting  the  outside  of  the  door  and  the  thresh 
old,  rubbing  off  every  speck  punctiliously. 

Fidelia  stood  there  in  the  morning  light  with  her  head 
nodding  like  a  flower  in  a  wind.  It  nodded  so  all  the  time. 
She  had  a  disease  of  the  nerves.  Her  yellow-gray  hair 
was  crimped,  and  put  up  carefully  in  a  little  coil,  with  two 
long  curls  on  either  side.  Her  long,  delicate  face,  which 
always  had  a  downward  droop  as  it  nodded,  had  a  soft  pol 
ish  like  ivory. 

When  Lily  Almy,  who  was  Fidelia's  orphan  niece,  whom 
she  was  bringing  up,  had  reached  the  gate  with  her  broom, 
she  peered  down  the  road ;  then  she  ran  back  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Fidelia,"  she  said,  in  a  precise,  slow  voice, 
which  was  copied  from  her  aunt's,  "there's  a  man  comin'. 
Do  you  s'pose  it's  him  ?" 

"  What  kind  of  a  lookin'  man  ?"  Fidelia's  head  nodded 
faster ;  a  bright  red  spot  gleamed  out  on  either  cheek. 

"  A  real  handsome  man.  He's  tall,  and  he's  got  reddish 
whiskers.  And  he's  got  a  carpet  bag." 

"  That's  the  way  he  looks." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Fidelia,  do  you  s'pose  it's  him." 

"  'Tain't  very  likely  to  be." 

"  Here  he  is." 

Fidelia  ran  into  the  house,  and  knelt  down  by  the  parlor 
window,  just  peering  over  the  sill.  Her  whole  body  seemed 
wavering  like  her  head  ;  her  breath  came  in  great  gasps. 
The  man,  who  was  young  and  handsome,  walked  past. 

Lily  ran  in.     "'Twa'n't  him,  was  it?"  said  she. 

"I  didn't  much  expect  it  was.  I've  always  thought  he'd 
come  on  a  Tuesday.  I've  dreamed  'bout  his  comin'  Tues 
day  more  times  than  I  can  tell.  Now  I'm  goin'  to  fix  the 
flowers  in  the  vases,  and  then  I'm  goin'  down  to  the  post- 


A   PATIENT  WAITER.  401 

office.  I  feel  jest  as  if  I  might  git  a  letter  to-day.  There 
was  one  in  the  candle  last  night." 

Fidelia  moved,  nodding,  among  her  flowers  in  her  front 
yard.  She  gathered  up  her  purple  calico  apron,  and  cut 
the  flowers  into  it. 

"  You  run  out  into  the  garden  an'  git  some  sparrow-grass 
for  green,"  she  told  Lily,  "an'  pick  some  of  that  striped 
grass  under  the  parlor  window,  an'  some  of  them  spider- 
lilies  by  the  fence." 

The  little  white-painted  mantel-shelf  in  Fidelia's  parlor 
was  like  an  altar,  upon  which  she  daily  heaped  floral  offer 
ings.  And  who  knows  what  fair  deity  in  bright  clouds  she 
saw  when  she  made  her 'sacrifice  ? 

Fidelia  had  only  two  vases,  tall  gilt  and  white  china  ones, 
with  scrolling  tops;  these  stood  finely  in  the  centre,  hold 
ing  their  drooping  nosegays.  Beside  these  were  broken 
china  bowls,  cream  jugs  without  handles,  tumblers,  wine 
glasses,  saucers,  and  one  smart  china  mug  with  "  Friend 
ship's  Offering"  in  gold  letters.  Slightly  withered  flowers 
were  in  all  of  them.  Fidelia  threw  them  out,  and  filled  all 
the  vessels  with  fresh  ones.  The  green  asparagus  sprays 
brushed  the  shelf,  the  striped  grass  overtopped  the  gay 
flowers. 

"  There,"  said  Fidelia,  "  now  I'm  goin'  to  the  post-office." 

"  If  anybody  comes,  I'll  ask  him  in  here,  an'  tell  him 
you'll  be  right  back,  sha'n't  I  ?"  said  Lily. 

"Tell  him  I'll  be  back  in  jest  a  few  minutes,  an'  give 
him  the  big  rockin'-chair." 

The  post-office  was  a  mile  away,  in  the  corner  of  a  coun 
try  store.  Twice  a  clay,  year  out  and  year  in,  Fidelia  jour 
neyed  thither. 

"  It's  only  Fidelia  Almy,"  people  said,  looking  out  of  the 


402  A  PATIENT  WAITER. 

windows,  as  the  poor  solitary  figure  with  its  nodding  head 
went  by  through  summer  suns  and  winter  winds. 

Once  in  a  while  they  hailed  her,  "  See  if  there's  any- 
thing  for  me,  won't  you,  Fidelia?" 

At  last  it  was  an  understood  thing  that  Fidelia  should 
carry  the  mail  to  the  dozen  families  between  her  house  and 
the  post-office.  She  often  had  her  black  worked  bag  filled 
up  with  letters,  but  there  was  never  one  of  her  own.  Fidelia 
Almy  never  had  a  letter. 

"  That  woman's  been  comin'  here  the  last  thirty  years," 
the  postmaster  told  a  stranger  one  day,  "  an'  she  ain't  never 
had  a  letter  sence  I've  been  here,  an'  I  don't  believe  she 
ever  did  before." 

Fidelia  used  to  come  in  a  little  before  the  mail  was  dis 
tributed,  and  sit  on  an  old  settee  near  the  door,  waiting. 
Her  face  at  those  times  had  a  wild,  strained  look ;  but  after 
the  letters  were  all  in  the  boxes  it  settled  back  into  its  old 
expression,  and  she  travelled  away  with  her  bag  of  other 
people's  letters,  nodding  patiently. 

On  her  route  was  one  young  girl  who  had  a  lover  in  a 
neighboring  town.  Her  letters  came  regularly.  She  used 
to  watch  for  Fidelia,  and  run  to  meet  her,  her  pretty  face 
all  blushes.  Fidelia  always  had  the  letter  separated  from 
the  others,  and  ready  for  her.  She  always  smiled  when 
she  held  it  out.  "They  keep  a-comin',''  she  said  one  day, 
"  an'  there  don't  seem  to  be  no  end  to  it.  But  if  I  was  you, 
Louisa,  I'd  try  an'  git  him  to  settle  over  here,  if  you  ain't 
married  before  long.  There's  slips,  an'  it  ain't  always  safe 
trustin'  to  letters." 

The  girl  told  her  lover  what  Fidelia  'had  said,  with  tender 
laughter  and  happy  pity.  "Poor  thing,"  she  said.  "She 
had  a  beau,  you  know,  Willy,  and  he  went  away  thirty  years 


A   PATIENT  WAITER.  403 

ago,  and  ever  since  then  she's  been  looking  for  a  letter 
from  him,  and  she's  kind  of  cracked  over  it.  And  she's 
afraid  it'll  turn  out  the  same  way  with  me." 

Then  she  and  her  sweetheart  laughed  together  at  the 
idea  of  this  sad,  foolish  destiny  for  this  pretty,  courageous 
young  thing. 

To-day  Fidelia,  with  her  black  broadcloth  bag,  worked 
on  one  side  with  a  wreath  and  on  the  other  with  a  bunch  of 
flowers,  walked  slowly  to  the  office  and  back.  As  the  years 
went  on  she  walked  slower.  This  double  journey  of  hers 
seemed  to  tire  her  more.  Once  in  a  while  she  would  sit 
down  and  rest  on  the  stone  wall.  The  clumps  of  dusty 
way-side  flowers,  meadow-sweet  and  tansy,  stood  around 
her;  over  her  head  was  the  blue  sky.  But  she  clutched  her 
black  letter-bag,  and  nodded  her  drooping  head,  and  never 
looked  up.  Her  sky  was  elsewhere. 

When  she  came  in  sight  of  her  own  house  Lily,  who  was 
watching  at  the  gate,  came  running  to  meet  her. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Fidelia,"  said  she,  "Aunt  Sally's  in  there." 

"  Did  she  take  off  her  shoes  an'  let  you  brush  'em  before 
she  went  in  ?" 

"  She  wouldn't.  She  went  right  straight  in.  She  jest 
laughed  when  I  asked  her  to  take  her  shoes  off.  An',  Aunt 
Fidelia,  she's  done  somethin'  else.  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  What  ?" 

"  She's  been  eatin'  some  of  Mr.  Lennox's  plum-cake  up. 
I  couldn't  stop  her,  Aunt  Fidelia.  I  told  her  she  mus'n't." 

"  You  didn't  say  nothin'  'bout  Mr.  Lennox,  did  you  ?" 

"  No,  I  didn't,  Aunt  Fidelia.     Oh,  did  you  get  a  letter !" 

"No;  I  didn't  much  think  I  would  to-day.  Oh  dear! 
there's  Sally  eatin'  cake  right  in  the  front  entry." 

A  stout  old  woman,  with  a  piece  of  cake  in  her  hand, 


404  A  PATIENT  WAITER. 

stood  in  the  front  door  as  Fidelia  and  Lily  came  up  be 
tween  the  dahlias. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Fidelia?"  cried  she,  warmly. 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  you.  How  do  you  do,  Sally  ?"  Fide 
lia  answered.  She  shook  hands,  and  looked  at  the  other 
with  a  sort  of  meek  uneasiness.  "  Hadn't  you  jest  as  soon 
step  out  here  whilst  you're  eatin'  that  cake  ?"  asked  she, 
timidly.  "  I've  jest  swept  the  entry." 

"No;  I  ain't  goin'  to  step  out  there  an  inch,"  said  the 
other,  mumbling  the  cake  vigorously  between  her  old  jaws. 
"  IJlYP-U  ain't  the  worst  oldmai^  Fidelia!  Ain't  seen  all 
the  sister  you've  goTTn  the  world  for  a  year,  an'  wan  tin'  her 
to  go  out-doors  to  eat  a  piece  of  cake.  Hard  work  to  git 
the  cake,  too." 

"  It  don't  make  any  difference,"  said  Fidelia.  "  I'm  real 
kind  o'  used  up  every  time  I  sweep  nowadays,  that's  all." 

"  Better  stop  sweeping  then  ;  there  ain't  no  need  of  so 
much  fussin'.  It's  more'n  half  that's  got  your  nerves  out 
of  kilter — sweepin'  an'  scrubbin'  from  mornin'  till  night,  an' 
wantin'  folks  to  take  off  their  shoes  before  they  come  in,  as 
if  they  was  goin'  into  a  heathen  temple.  Well,  I  ain't  goin' 
to  waste  all  my  breath  scoldin'  when  I've  come  over  to  see 
you.  How  air  you  now,  Fidelia  ?" 

"  I'm  'bout  the  same  as  ever."  Fidelia,  following  her 
sister  into  the  parlor,  stooped  slyly  to  pick  up  some  crumbs 
which  had  fallen  on  the  entry  floor. 

"  Just  as  shaky,  ain't  you  ?  Why,  Fidelia  Almy,  what  in 
creation  have  you  got  this  room  rigged  up  so  fur  ?" 

"  Rigged  up  how  ?" 

"  Why,  everythin^jcoyered  up  this  way.  What  hev  you 
got  this  old  sheet  over  the  carpet  fur  ?" 

"  It  was  fadin'  dreadfully." 


A   PATIENT  WAITER.  405 

"Fadm'I  Good  land!  If  you  ain't  got  every  chair 
sewed  up  in  caliker,  an'  the  pictures  in  old  piller-cases, 
an' —  Fidelia  Almy,  if  you  ain't  got  the  solar  lamp  a-set- 
tin'  in  a  little  bag !" 

"  The  gilt  was  gittin'  real  kind  o'  tarnished." 

"Tarnished  !  An'  every  single  thing  on  the  table — the 
chiner  card-basket  an'  Mrs.  Hemans's  Poems  pinned  up  in 
a  white  rag !  Good  land !  Well,  I've  always  heard  tell 
that  there  was  two  kinds  of  old  maids — old  maids  an'  con- 
sarned  old  maids — an'  I  guess  you're  one  of  the  last  sort. 
Why,  what  air  you  cuttin'  on  so  fur  ?" 

Fidelia  gathered  up  all  her  trembling  meekness  and 
weakness  into  a  show  of  dignity.  "  Things  are  all  fadin' 
and  wearin'  out,  an'  I  want  to  keep  'em  decent  as  long  as  I 
last.  I  ain't  got  no  money  to  buy  any  more.  I  ain't  got 
no  husband  nor  sons  to  do  for  me,  like  you,  an'  I've  got  to 
take  care  of  things  if  I  hev  anything.  An' — I'm  goin  to." 

Her  sister  laughed.  "Well,  good  land!  I  don't  care. 
Cover  up  your  things  if  you  want  to.  There  ain't  no  need 
of  your  gittin'  riled.  But  this  room  does  look  enough  to 
make  a  cat  laugh.  All  them  flowers  on  the  mantel,  an'  all 
those  white  things.  I  declare,  Fidelia  Almy,  it  does  look 
jest  as  if  'twas  laid  out.  Well,  we  won't  talk  no  more  about 
ffTT'm  goin'  out  to  hev  a  cup  of  tea.  I  put  the  teapot  on, 
an'  started  the  fire." 

Poor  Fidelia  had  a  distressing  day  with  her  visiting  sis 
ter.  All  her  prim  household  arrangements  were  examined 
and  commented  on.  Not  a  closet  nor  bureau  drawer  es 
caped  inspection.  When  the  guest  departed,  at  length,  the 
woman  and  the  child  looked  at  each  other  with  relief. 

"  Ain't  you  glad  she's  gone  ?"  asked  Lily.  She  had  been 
pink  with  indignation  all  day. 


406  A  PATIENT  WAITER. 

"  Hush,  child ;  you  mustn't.     She's  my  sister,  an'  I'm 
always  glad  to  see  her,  if  she  is  a  little  tryin'  sometimes." 
"  She  wanted  you  to  take  the  covers  off  an'  let  the  things" 

-»  O 

git  spoiled  before  Mr.  Lennox  comes,  didn't  she  ?" 

"  She  don't  know  nothhi'  about  that." 

"  Are  you  goin'  to  make  another  plum-cake  to-night, 
Aunt  Fidelia  ?" 

"  I  don'  know.     I  guess  we'd  better  sweep  first." 

The  two  worked  hard  and  late  that  night.  They  swept 
every  inch  of  floor  which  that  profane  dusty  foot  had  trod. 
The  child  helped  eagerly.  She  was  Fidelia's  confidante, 
and  she  repaid  her  confidence  with  the  sweetest  faith  and 
sympathy.  Nothing  could  exceed  her  innocent  trust  in 
Fidelia's  pathetic  story  and  pathetic  hopes.  This  sad  hu 
man  experience  was  her  fairy  tale  of  childhood.  That  rec 
reant  lover,  Ansel  Lennox,  who  had  left  his  sweetheart  for 
California  thirty  years  ago,  and  promised  falsely  to  write 
and  return,  was  her  fairy  prince.  Her  bright  imagination 
pictured  him  beautiful  as  a  god. 

"  He  was  about  as  handsome  a  young  man  as  you  ever 
see,"  said  poor  Fidelia.  And  a  young  Apollo  towered  up 
before  Lily's  credulous  eyes.  The  lapse  of  thirty  years  af 
fected  the  imagination  of  neither;  but  Lily  used  to  look  at 
her  aunt  reflectively  sometimes. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  some  medicine  to  make  you  stop 
shakin'  before  that  handsome  Mr.  Lennox  comes,"  she  said 
once. 

"  I'm  in  hopes  that  medicine  I'm  takin'  will  stop  it,"  said 
Fidelia.  "I  think,  mebbe,  it's  a  little  better  now.  I'm 
glad  I  thought  to  put  that  catnip  in ;  it  makes  it  a  good 
deal  more  quietin'." 

On  the  narrow  ledge  of  shelf  behind  Fidelia's  kitchen 


A   PATIENT  WAITER.  407 

sink  stood  always  a  blue  quart  bottle  of  medicine.  She 
prepared  it  herself  from  roots  and  herbs.  She  experimented 
and  added  new  ingredients,  and  swallowed  it  with  a  touch 
ing  faith  that  it  would  cure  her.  Beside  this  bottle  stood 
another  of  sage  tea  ;  that  was  for  her  hair.  She  used  it 
plentifully  every  day  in  the  hope  that  it  would  stop  the  gray 
hairs  coming,  and  bring  back  the  fine  color.  Fidelia  used 
to  have  pretty  golden  hair. 

Lily  teased  her  to  make  the  sage  tea  stronger.  "  You've 
been  usin'  it  a  dreadful  long  time,  Aunt  Fidelia,"  said  she, 
"  an'  your  hair's  jest  as  gray  as  'twas  before." 

"  Takes  quite  a  long  time  before  you  can  see  any  differ 
ence,"  said  Fidelia. 

Many  a  summer  morning,  when  the  dew  was  heavy,  she 
and  Lily  used  to  steal  out  early  and  bathe  their  faces  in  it. 
Fidelia  said  it  would  make  people  rosy  and  keep  away  the 
wrinkles* 

"  It  works  better  on  me  than  it  does  on  you,  don't  it  ?" 
asked  pink-and-white  Lily,  innocently,  once.  The  two 
were  out  in  the  shining  white  field  together.  The  morning 
lit  up  Lily  as  it  did  the  flowers.  Her  eyes  had  lovely  blue 
sparkles  in  them  ;  her  yellow  hair,  ruffled  by  the  wind,  glit 
tered  as  radiantly  between  one  and  the  light  as  the  cobweb 
lines  across  the  grasses.  She  looked  wonderingly  at  her 
aunt,  with  her  nodding  gray  head,  plunging  her  little  yellow 
hands  into  the  dewy  green  things.  Those  dull  tints  and 
white  hairs  and  wrinkles  showed  forth  so  plainly  in  the 
clear  light  that  even  the  child's  charming  faith  was  dis 
turbed  a  little.  Would  the  dew  ever  make  this  old  creature 
pretty  again  ? 

But — "You  can't  expect  it  to  work  in  a  minute,"  replied 
Fidelia,  cheerTuTTy;  AncfLily  was  satisfied. 


4o8  A  PATIENT  WAITER. 

"  I  guess  it'll  work  by  the  time  Mr.  Lennox  comes,"  she 
said. 

Fidelia  was  always  neat  and  trim  in  her  appearance,  her 
hair  was  always  carefully  arranged,  and  her  shoes' tidy ;  but 
summer  and  winter  she  wore  one  sort  of  gown — a  purple 
calico.  She  had  a  fine  black  silk  hung  away  in  the  closet 
up-stairs.  She  had  one  or  two  good  woollens,  and  some 
delicate  cambrics.  There  was  even  one  white  muslin,  with 
some  lace  in  neck  and  sleeves,  hanging  there.  But  she 
never  wore  one  of  them.  Her  sister  scolded  her  for  it,  and 
other  people  wondered.  Fidelia's  child-confidante  alone 
knew  the  reason  why.  This  poor,  nodding,  enchanted  prin 
cess  was  saving  her  gay  attire  till  the  prince  returned  and 
the  enchantment  ceased,  and  she  was  beautiful  again. 

"  You  mustn't  say  nothin'  about  it,"  Fidelia  had  said  ; 
"  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  put  on  them  good  dresses  an'  tag  'em 
right  out.  Mebbe  the  time  '11  come  when  I'll  want  'em 
more." 

"Mr.  Lennox  '11  think  that  black  silk  is  beautiful,"  said 
Lily,  "  an'  that  white  muslin." 

"  I  had  that  jest  after  he  went  away,  an'  I  ain't  never  put 
it  on.  I  thought  I  wouldn't ;  muslin  don't  look  half  so 
nice  after  the  new  look  gits  off  it." 

So  Lily  waited  all  through  her  childhood.  She  watched 
-  her  aunt  start  forth  on  her  daily^pilgrimages  to  the  post- 
office,  with  the  confident  expectation  that  one  of  these  days 
she  would  return  with  a  letter  from  Mr.  Lennox.  She  re 
garded  that  sacred  loaf  of  plum-cake  which  was  always  kept 
on  hand,  and  believed  that  he  might  appear  to  dispose  of 
it  at  any  moment.  She  had  the  sincerest  _faith  that  the 
time  was  coming  when  the  herb  medicine  would  quiet  poor 
Fidelia's  tremulous  head,  when  the  sage  tea  would  turn  all 


A  PATIENT  WAITER.  409 

the  gray  hairs  gold,  and  the  clew  would  make  her  yellow, 
seamy  cheeks  smooth  and  rosy,  when  she  would  put  on  that 
magnificent  black  silk  or  that  dainty  girlish  muslin,  and  sit 
in  the  parlor  with  Mr.  Lennox,  and  have  the  covers  off  the 
chairs,  and  the  mantel-piece  blooming  with  flowers. 

So  the  child  and  the  woman  lived  happily  with  their  beau 
tiful  chimera,  until  gradually  he  vanished  into  thin  air  for 
one  of  them. 

""Lily  could  not  have  told  when  the  conviction  first  seized 
her  that  Mr.  Lennox  would  never  write,  would  never  come  ; 
that  Aunt  Fidelia's  gray  hair  would  never  turn  gold,  nor  her 
faded  cheeks  be  rosy ;  that  her  nodding  head  would  nod 
until  she  was  dead. 

It  was  hardly  until  she  was  a  woman  herself,  and  had  a 
lover  of  her  own.  It  is  possible  that  he  gave  the  final  over 
throw  to  her  faith,  that  it  had  not  entirely  vanished  before. 
She  told  him  all  about  Mr.  Lennox.  She  scarcely  looked 
upon  it  as  a  secret  to  be  kept  now.  She  had  ascertained 
that  many  people  were  acquainted  with  Fidelia  Almy's  poor 
romance,  except  in  its  minor  details. 

So  Lily  told  her  lover.  "  Good  Lord  !"  he  said.  "  How 
long  is  it  since  he  went  ?" 

"  Forty  years  now,"  said  Lily.  They  were  walking  home 
from  meeting  one  Sunday  night. 

"  Forty  years !  Why,  there  ain't  any  more  chance  of 
hearing  anything  from  him —  Did  he  have  any  folks 
here  ?" 

"  No.  He  was  a  clerk  in  a  store  here.  He  fell  in  love 
with  Aunt  Fidelia,  and  went  off  to  California  to  get  some 
more  money  before  he  got  married." 

"  Didn't  anybody  ever  hear  anything  from  him  ?" 

"  Aunt  Fidelia  always  said  not ;  but  Aunt  Sally  told  me 


4  io  A   PATIENT  WAITER. 

once  that  she  knew  well  enough  that  he  got  married  out 
there  right  after  he  went  away  ;  she  said  she  heard  it  pretty 
straight.  She  never  had  any  patience  with  Aunt  Fidelia. 
If  she'cl  known  half  the  things —  Poor  Aunt  Fidelia  !  She's 
getting  worse  lately.  She  goes  to  the  post-office  Sundays. 
I  can't  stop  her.  Every  single  Sunday,  before  meeting, 
down  she  goes." 

"  Why,  she  can't  get  in." 

"  I  know  it.  She  just  tries  the  door,  and  comes  back 
again." 

"  Why,  dear,  she's  crazy,  ain't  she  ?" 

"  No,  she  ain't  crazy  ;  she's  rational  enough  about  every 
thing  else^  All  the  way  I  can  put  it  is,  she's  just  beeirpoint- 
fjcTone  way  all  her  life,  and  going  one  way,  and  now  she's 
getting  nearer  the  end  of  the  road,  she's  pointed  sharper 
and  she's  going  faster.  She's  had  a  hard  time.  I'm  going 
to  do  all  I  can  for  her,  anyhow.  I'll  help  her  get  ready  for 
Mr.  Lennox  as  long  as  she  lives." 

Fidelia  took  great  delight  in  Lily's  love  affair.  All  that 
seemed  to  trouble  her  was  the  suspicion  that  the  young  man 
might  leave  town,  and  the  pair  be  brought  to  letter-writing. 

"  You  mind,  Lily,"  she  would  say  ;  "  don't  you  let  Valen 
tine  settle  anywhere  else  before  you're  married.  If  you  do, 
you'll  have  to  come  to  writin'  letters,  an'  letters  ain't  to  be 
depended  on.  There's  slips.  You'd  get  sick  of  waitin'  the 
way  I  have.  I  ain't  minded  it  much  ;  but  you're  young,  an' 
it  would  be  different." 

When  Valentine. JRovve  did  find  employment  in  a  town 
fifty  miles  away,  poor  Fidelia  seemed  to  have  taken  upon 
herself  a  double  burden  of  suspense. 

In  those  days  she  was  much  too  early  for  the  mails,  and 
waited,  breathless,  in  the  office  for  hours.  When  she  got  a 


A   PATIENT   WAITER.  4II 

letter  for  Lily  she  went  home  radiant;  she  seemed  to  forget 
her  own  disappointment. 

Lily's  letters  came  regularly  for  a  long  time.  Valentine 
came  to  see  her  occasionally  too.  Then,  one  day,  when 
Lily  expected  a  letter,  it  did  not  come.  Her  aunt  dragged 
herself  home  feebly. 

"  It  ain't  come,  Lily,"  said  she.  "  The  trouble's  begun. 
You  poor  child,  how  air  you  goin'  to  go  through  with  it  ?" 

Lily  laughed.  "Why,  Aunt  Fidelia!"  said  she,  "what 
are  you  worrying  for?  I  haven't  missed  a  letter  before. 
Something  happened  so  Valentine  couldn't  write  Sunday, 
that's  all.  It  don't  trouble  me  a  mite." 

However,  even  Lily  was  troubled  at  length.  WTeeks 
went  by,  and  no  letter  came  from  Valentine  Rowe.  Fidelia 
tottered  home  despondent  day  after  day.  The  girl  had  a 
brave  heart,  but  she  b.egan  to  shudder,  watching  her.  She 
felt  as  if  she  were  looking  into  her  own  destiny. 

"  I'm  going  to  write  to  Valentine,"  she  said,  suddenly,  one 
day,  after  Fidelia  had  returned  from  her  bootless  journey. 

Fidelia  looked  at  her  fiercely.  "Lily  Almy,"  said  she, 
"  whatever  else  you  do,  don't  you  do  that.  Don't  you  force 
yourself  on  any  feller,  when  there's  a  chance  you  ain't 
wanted.  Don't  you  do  anything  that  ain't  modest.  You'd 
better  live  the  way  I've  done." 

"  He  may  be  sick,"  said  Lily,  pitifully. 

"The  folks  he's  with  would  write.  Don't  you  write  a 
word.  I  didn't  write.  An'  mebbe  you'll  hear  to-morrow. 
I  guess  we'd  better  sweep  the  parlor  to-day." 

This  new  anxiety  seemed  to  wear  on  Fidelia  more  than 
her  own  had  done.  She  now  talked  more  about  Valen 
tine  Rowe  than  Mr.  Lennox.  Her  faith  in  Lily's  case  did 
not  seem  as  active  as  in  her  own. 


412 


A    PATIENT   WAITER. 


"  I  wouldn't  go  down  to  the  post-office,  seems  to  me," 
Lily  said  one  morning — Fidelia  tottered  going  out  the  door; 
"you  don't  look  fit  to.  I'll  go  by  an'  by." 

"  I  can  go  well  enough,"  said  Fidelia,  in  her  feeble,  shrill 
voice.  "You  ain't  goin'  to  begin  as  long  as  I  can  help  it." 
And  she  crawled  slowly  out  of  the  yard  between  the  rows 
of  dahlias,  and  down  the  road,  her  head  nodding,  her  flabby 
black  bag  hanging  at  her  side. 

That  was  the  last  time  she  ever  went  to  the  post-office. 
That  day  she  returned  with  her  patient,  disappointed  heart 
for  the  last  time. 

When  poor  Fidelia  Almy  left  her  little  house  again  she 
went  riding,  lying  quietly,  her  nodding  head  still  forever. 
She  had  passed  out  of  that  strong  wind  of  Providence  which 
had  tossed  her  so  hard,  into  the  eternal  calm.  She  rode 
past  the  post-office  on  her  way  to  the  little  green  grave 
yard,  and  never  knew  nor  cared  whether  there  was  a  letter 
for  her  or  not.  But  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  summer  air  was 
soft  and  sweet,  and  the  little  funeral  train  passed  by ;  and 
maybe  there  was  one  among  the  fair,  wide  possibilities  of 
heaven. 

The  first  day  on  which  Fidelia  gave  up  going  to  the  post- 
office,  Lily  began  going  in  her  stead.  In  the  morning 
Fidelia  looked  up  at  her  pitifully  from  her  pillow,  when  she 
found  that  she  could  not  rise. 

"  You'll  have  to  go  to  the  office,  Lily,"  she  whispered  ; 
"an'  you'd  better  hurry,  or  you'll  be  late  for  the  mail." 

That  was  the  constant  cry  to  which  the  poor  girl  had  to 
listen.  It  was  always,  "Hurry,  hurry,  or  you'll  be  late  for 
the  mail." 

Lily  was  a  sweet,  healthy  young  thing,  but  the  contagion 
of  this  strained  faith  and  expectation  seemed  to  seize  upon 


A   PATIENT   WAITER.  4!3 

her  in  her  daily  tramps  to  the  post-office.  Sometimes, 
going  along  the  road,  she  could  hardly  believe  herself  not 
to  be  the  veritable  Fidelia  Almy,  living  life  over  again,  be 
ginning  a  new  watch  for  her  lost  lover's  letter.  She  put 
her  hand  to  her  head  to  see  if  it  nodded.  She  kept  whisper 
ing  to  herself,  "  Hurry,  hurry,  or  you'll  be  late  for  the  mail." 

Fidelia  lay  ill  a  week  before  she  died,  and  the  week  had 
nearly  gone,  when  Lily  flew  home  from  the  office  one  night, 
jubilant.  She  ran  in  to  the  sick  woman.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Fide 
lia  !"  she  cried,  "  the  letter's  come  !" 

Fidelia  had  not  raised  herself  for  days,  but  she  sat  up 
now  erect.  All  her  failing  forces  seemed  to  gather  them 
selves  up  and  flash  and  beat,  now  the  lifeward  wind  for  them 
blew.  The  color  came  into  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  shone 
triumphant.  "  Ansel's — letter  !" 

Lily  sobbed  right  out  in  the  midst  of  her  joy  :  "  Oh,  poor 
Aunt  Fidelia  !  poor  Aunt  Fidelia !  I  didn't  think — I  forgot. 
I  was  awful  cruel.  It's  a  letter  from  Valentine.  He's 
been  sick.  The  folks  wrote,  but  they  put  on  the  wrong 
state — Massachusetts  instead  of  Vermont.  He's  comin' 
right  home,  an'  he's  goin'  to  stay.  He's  goin'  to  settle  here. 
Poor  Aunt  Fidelia!  I  didn't  think." 

Fidelia  lay  back  on  her  pillow.  "  You  dear  child,"  she 
whispered,  "you  won't  have  to." 

Valentine  Rowe  came  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which 
she  died.  She  eagerly  demanded  to  see  him. 

"You're  a-goin'  to  settle  here,  ain't  you  ?"  she  asked  him. 
"Don't  you  go  away  again  before  you're  married;  don't 
you  do  it.  It  ain't  safe  trustin'  to  letters  ;  there's  slips." 

The  young  man  looked  down  at  her  with  tears  in  his 
honest  eyes.     "  I'll  settle  here  sure,"  said  he.     "  Don't  you 
worry.     I'll  promise  you." 
27 


414  A   PATIENT  WAITER. 

Fidelia  looked  tip  at  him,  and  shut  her  eyes  peacefully. 
"The  dear  child  !"  she  murmured. 

Along  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  called  Lily.  She 
wanted  her  to  put  her  head  down,  so  she  could  tell  her 
something. 

"  Them  dresses,"  she  whispered,  "  up-stairs.  You'd  bet 
ter  take  em'  an'  use  'em.  You  can  make  that  white  one 
over  for  a  weddin'  dress.  An'  you'd  better  take  the  covers 
off  the  things  in  the  parlor  when  you're  married,  an' — eat 
the  plum-cake." 

Near  sunset  she  called  Lily  again.  "The  evenin'  mail," 
she  whispered.  "  It's  time  for  it.  You'd  better  hurry,  or 
you'll  be  late.  I  shouldn't  be — a  bit — surprised  if  the  let 
ter  came  to  night." 

Lily  broke  down  and  cried.  "  Oh,  dear,  poor  aunty !" 
she  sobbed.  The  awful  pitiful  ness  of  it  all  seemed  to 
overwhelm  her  suddenly.  She  could  keep  up  no  longer. 

But  Fidelia  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  She  went  on  talk 
ing.  "  Ansel  Lennox — promised  he'd  write  when  he  went 
away,  an'  he  said  he'd  come  again.  It's  time  for  the  even- 
in'  mail.  You'd  better  hurry,  or  you'll  be  late.  He — prom 
ised  he'd  write,  an'" — she  looked  up  at  Lily  suddenly;  a 
look  of  triumphant  resolution  came  into  her  poor  face — "/ 
ain't  gold  to  give  it  up  yet" 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

Two  o'clock  had  been  the  hour  set  for  the  wedding.  It 
was  now  four,  and  the  bridegroom  had  not  yet  appeared. 
The  relatives  who  had  been  bidden  to  the  festivities  had 
been  waiting  impatiently  in  the  t\vo  square  front  rooms  of 
Maria  Caldwell's  house,  but  now  some  had  straggled  out 
into  the  front  yard,  from  which  they  could  look  up  the  road 
to  better  advantage. 

They  were  talking  excitedly.  A  shrill  feminine  babble, 
with  an  undertone  of  masculine  bass,  floated  about  the 
house  and  yard.  It  had  been  swelling  in  volume  from  a 
mere  whisper  for  the  last  half-hour — ever  since  Hiram 
Caldwell  had  set  out  for  the  bridegroom's  house  to  ascer 
tain  the  reason  for  his  tardiness  at  his  own  wedding. 

Hiram,  who  was  a  young  fellow,  had  gotten  into  his  shiny 
buggy  with  a  red,  important  face,  and  driven  off  at  a  furious 
rate.  He  was  own  cousin  to  Delia  Caldwell,  the  prospec 
tive  bride.  All  the  people  assembled  were  Thayers  or 
Caldwells,  or  connections  thereof.  The  tardy  bridegroom's 
name  was  Lawrence  Thayer. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  afternoon.  The  air  was  hot 
and  sweet.  Around  the  Caldwell  house  it  was  spicy  sweet 
with  pinks  ;  there  was  a  great  bed  of  them  at  the  foot  of 
the  green  bank  which  extended  under  the  front  windows. 


416  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

Some  of  the  women  and  young  girls  pulled  pinks  and 
sniffed  them  as  they  stood  waiting.  Mrs.  Erastus  Thayer 
had  stuck  two  or  three  in  the  bosom  of  her  cinnamon-brown 
silk  dress.  She  stood  beside  the  gate ;  occasionally  she 
craned  her  neck  over  it  and  peered  down  the  road.  The 
sun  was  hot  upon  her  silken  shoulders,  the  horizontal  wrin 
kles  shone,  but  she  did  not  mind. 

"  See  anything  of  him  ?"  some  one  called  out. 

"  No.     I'm  dreadful  afraid  somethin'  has  happened." 

"Oh,  mother,  what  do  you  think's  happened?"  asked 
a  young  girl  at  her  side,  hitting  her  with  a  sharp  elbow. 
The  girl  was  young,  slim,  and  tall ;  she  stooped  a  little  ; 
her  pointed  elbows  showed  redly  through  her  loose  white 
muslin  sleeves ;  her  face  was  pretty. 

"  Hush,  child  !  I  don't  know,"  said  her  mother. 

The  girl  stood  staring  at  her  with  helpless,  awed  eyes. 

At  last  the  woman  in  cinnamon-brown  silk  turned  excit 
edly  about.  "  He's  comin'  !"  she  proclaimed,  in  a  shrill 
whisper. 

The  whisper  passed  from  one  to  another. 

"  He's  coming  !"  everybody  repeated.  Heads  crowded 
together  at  the  window;  all  the  company  was  in  motion. 

"It  ain't  Lawrence,"  said  a  woman's  voice,  disappoint 
edly.  "  It  ain't  nobody  but  his  father,  with  Hiram." 

"  Somethin'  has  happened"  repeated  Mrs.  Thayer.  The 
young  girl  trembled  and  caught  hold  of  her  mother's  dress; 
her  eyes  grew  big  and  wild.  Hiram  Caldwell  drove  up  the 
road.  He  met  the  gaze  of  the  people  with  a  look  of  solemn 
embarrassment.  But  he  was  not  so  important  as  he  had 
been.  There  was  a  large,  white-headed  old  man  with  him, 
who  drew  the  larger  share  of  attention.  He  got  lumber- 
ingly  out  of  the  buggy  when  Hiram  drew  rein  at  the  gate. 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

Then  he  proceeded  up  the  gravel  walk  to  the  house.  The 
people  stood  back  and  stared.  No  one  dared  speak  to  him 
except  Mrs.  Erastus  Thayer.  She  darted  before  him  in 
the  path  ;  her  brown  silk  skirts  swished. 

"  Mr.  Thayer,"  cried  she,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  Do  tell 
us  !  What  has  happened  ?" 

"Where's  Delia?"  said  the  old  man. 

"Oh,  she's  in  the  bedroom  out  of  the  parlor.  She  ain't 
been  out  yet.  Mr.  Thayer,  for  mercy's  sake,  what  is  the 
matter?  What  has  happened  to  him?" 

David  Thayer  waved  her  aside,  and  kept  straight  on,  his 
long  yellow  face  immovable,  his  gaunt  old  shoulders  reso 
lutely  braced,  through  the  parlor,  and  knocked  at  the  bed 
room  door. 

A  nervously  shaking  woman  in  black  silk  opened  it.  She 
screamed  when  she  saw  him.  "Oh,  Mr.  Thayer,  it's  you! 
What  is  the  matter?  where  is  he?"  she  gasped,  clutching 
his  arm, 

A  young  woman  in  a  pearl -colored  silk  gown  stood, 
straight  and  silent,  behind  her.  She  had  a  tall,  full  figure, 
and  there  was  something  grand  in  her  attitude.  She  stood 
like  a  young  pine-tree,  as  if  she  had  all  necessary  elements 
.of  support  in  her  own  self.  Her  features  were  strong  and 
fine.  She  would  have  been  handsome  if  her  complexion 
had  been  better.  Her  skin  was  thick  and  dull. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  stood  looking  at  David  Thayer. 
Her  mouth  was  shut  tightly,  her  eyes  steady.  She  might 
have  been  braced  to  meet  a  wind. 

There  were  several  other  women  in  the  little  room.  Mr. 
Thayer  looked  at  them  uneasily.  "  I  want  to  see  Delia  an' 
her  mother,  an'  nobody  else,"  said  he,  finally. 

The  women  started  and  looked  at  each  other;  they  then 


4I8  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

left.  The  old  man  closed  the  door  after  them  and  turned 
to  Delia. 

Her  mother  had  begun  to  cry.  "  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear !" 
she  wailed.  "  I  knew  somethin'  dreadful  had  happened." 

"Delia,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  know  what  you're  goin'  to  say. 
It  ain't  very  pleasant  for  me  to  tell  you.  I  wish  this  min 
ute  Lawrence  Thayer  didn't  belong  to  me.  But  that  don't 
better  matters  any.  He  does,  an'  somebody's  got  to  tell 
you." 

"  Oh,  is  he  dead  ?"  asked  Delia's  mother,  brokenly. 

"  No,  he  ain't  dead,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  an'  he  ain't 
sick.  I  don't  know  of  anything  that  ails  him  except  he's  a 
fool.  He  won't  come — that's  the  whole  of  it." 

"Won't  come  !"  shrieked  the  mother.  Delia  stood  stiff 
and  straight. 

"  No,  he  won't  come.  His  mother  an'  I  have  been  talkin' 
an'  reasonin'  with  him,  but  it  hasn't  done  any  good.  I  don't 
know  but  it'll  kill  his  mother.  It's  all  on  account  of  that 
Briggs  girl :  you  might  as  well  know  it.  I  wish  she'd  never 
come  near  the  house.  I've  seen  what  way  the  wind  blew 
for  some  time,  but  I  never  dreamed  it  would  come  to  this. 
I  think  it's  a  sudden  start  on  his  part.  I  believe  he  meant 
to  come,  this  noon,  as  much  as  could  be;  but  Olive  came 
home,  an'  they  were  talkin'  together  in  the  parlor,  an'  I  see 
she'd  been  cry  in'.  His  mother  an'  I  got  ready,  an'  when  he 
didn't  come  clown-stairs  she  went  up  to  see  where  he  was. 
He  had  his  door  locked,  an'  he  called  out  he  wasn't  goin'; 
that  was  all  we  could  get  out  of  him.  He  wouldn't  say  an 
other  word,  but  we  knew  what  the  trouble  was.  '  His  mother 
had  noticed  how  red  Olive's  eyes  were  when  she  went  back 
to  the  shop.  She'd  been  takin'  on,  I  suppose,  an'  so  he 
decided,  all  of  a  sudden,  he'd  back  out.  There  ain't  any, 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  419 

excuse  for  him,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  make  up  any.  He's 
treated  you  mean,  Delia,  an'  I'd  rather  have  cut  off  my 
right  hand  than  had  it  happened ;  that's  all  I  can  say  about 
it,  an'  that  don't  do  any  good." 

Mrs.  Caldwell  stepped  forward  suddenly.  "I  should 
think  he  had  treated  her  mean  !"  she  said — her  voice  rose 
loud  and  shrill.  "  I  never  heard  anything  like  it.  If  I  had 
a  son  like  that,  I  wouldn't  tell  of  it.  That  Briggs  girl !  He 
ought  to  be  strung  up.  If  you  an'  his  mother  had  had  any 
sort  of  spunk  you'd  made  him  come.  You  always  babied 
him  to  death.  He's  a  rascal.  I'd  like  to  get  hold  of  him, 
that's  all ;  I—" 

Delia  caught  her  mother  by  the  arm.  "Mother,  if  you 
have  any  sense,  or  feeling  for  me,  don't  talk  so  loud :  all 
those  folks  out  there  will  hear." 

The  older  woman's  shrill  vituperation  flowed  through  the 
daughter's  remonstrance  and  beyond  it.  "I  would  like  to 
show  him  he  couldn't  do  such  things  as  this  without  gettin' 
some  punishment  for  it.  I — 

"  Mother !" 

Mrs.  Caldwell  changed  her  tone  suddenly.  She  began 
to  cry  weakly.  "  Oh,  Delia,  you  poor  child,  what  will  you 
do  ?"  she  sobbed. 

"  It  isn't  going  to  do  any  good  to  go  on  so,  mother." 

"There's  all  them  folks  out  there.  Oh  dear!  What 
will  they  say?  I  wouldn't  care  so  much  if  it  wa'n't  for  all 
them  Thayers  an'  Caldwells.  They'll  jest  crow.  Oh  dear ! 
you  poor  child  !" 

Delia  turned  to  Mr.  Thayer.  "  Somebody  ought  to  tell 
them,"  said  she,  "  that — there  won't  be  any — wedding." 

"  Oh,  Delia,  how  can  you  take  it  so  calm  ?"  wailed  her 
mother. 


420  A   CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

11 1  suppose  so,"  assented  the  old  man ;  "  but  I  declare 
I  can't  tell  'em  such  a  thing  about  a  son  of  mine.  I  feel  as 
if  I'd  been  through  about  all  I  could." 

"  The  minister  would  be  a  good  one,  wouldn't  he  ?"  said 
Delia. 

Mr.  Thayer  took  up  with  the  suggestion  eagerly.  He 
opened  the  door  a  chink,  and  asked  one  of  the  waiting  offi 
cious  guests  to  summon  the  minister.  When  he  came  he 
gave  him  instructions  in  an  agitated  whisper ;  then  re 
treated.  The  trio  in  the  bedroom  became  conscious  of  a 
great  hush  without ;  then  the  minister's  solemnly  inflected 
voice  broke  upon  it.  He  was  telling  them  that  the  wedding 
was  postponed.  Then  there  was  a  little  responsive  mur 
mur,  and  the  minister  knocked  on  the  door. 

"Shall  I  tell  them  when  it  will  take  place?-— they  are 
inquiring,"  he  whispered. 

Delia  heard  him.  "You  can  tell  them  it  will  never  take 
place,"  said  she,  in  a  clear  voice. 

The  minister  stared  at  her  wonderingly.  "Oh  !"  groaned 
her  mother.  Then  the  minister's  voice  rose  again,  and  di 
rectly  there  were  a  creaking  and  rustling,  and  subdued  clat 
ter  of  voices.  The  guests  were  departing. 

After  a  little,  Delia  approached  the  door  as  if  she  were 
going  out  into  the  parlor. 

"  Oh,  Delia,  don't  go  !  wait  till  they're  all  gone  !"  wailed 
her  mother.  "All  them  Thayers  and  Caldwells !" 

"  They  are  gone,  most  of  them.  I've  stood  in  this  hot 
little  room  long  enough,"  said  Delia,  and  threw  open  the 
door.  Directly  opposite  was  a  mahogany  table  with  the 
wedding  presents  on  it.  Three  or  four  women,  among  them 
Mrs.  Erastus  Thayer  and  her  daughter,  were  bending  over 
them  and  whispering. 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  421 

When  the  door  opened  they  turned  and  stared  at  Delia 
standing  there  in  her  pearl-colored  silk,  with  some  dsoop- 
ing  white  bridal  flowers  on  her  breast.  They  looked  stiff 
and  embarrassed.  Then  Mrs.  Thayer  recovered  herself  and 
came  forward. 

"  Delia,"  said  she,  in  a  soft  whisper,  "  dear  girl." 

She  put  her  arm  around  Delia,  and  attempted  to  draw 
her  towards  herself;  but  the  girl  released  herself,  and  gave 
her  a  slight  backward  push. 

"Please  don't  make  any  fuss  over  me,  Mrs.  Thayer,"  said 
she  ;  "  it  isn't  necessary." 

Mrs.  Thayer  started  back,  and  went  towards  the  door. 
Her  face  was  very  red.  She  tried  to  smile.  Her  daughter 
and  the  other  woman  followed  her. 

"I'm  real  glad  she  can  show  some  temper  about  it,"  she 
whispered,  when  they  were  all  out  in  the  entry.  "It's  a 
good  deal  better  for  her." 

"  Ask  her  why  he  didn't  come,"  one  of  the  women  whis 
pered,  nudging  her. 

"  I'm  kind  of  afraid  to.  I'll  stop  and  ask  Hiram  on  my 
way  home  ;  mebbe  Mr.  Thayer  told  him." 

"  Delia,  in  her  bridal  gear,  stood  majestically  beside  one 
of  the  parlor  windows.  She  was  plainly  waiting  for  her 
guests  to  go.  They  kept  peering  in  at  her,  while  they  whis 
pered  among  themselves.  Presently  Mrs.  Thayer's  daugh 
ter  came  across  the  room  tremblingly.  She  had  hesitated 
on  the  parlor  threshold,  but  her  mother  had  given  her  a 
slight  push  on  her  slender  shoulders,  and  she  had  entered 
suddenly.  She  kept  looking  back  as  she  advanced  towards 
Delia. 

"  Mother  wants  to  know,"  she  faltered,  in  her  thin  girlish 
pipe,  "if — you  wouldn't  rather — she'd — take  back  that  toi- 


422  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

let  set  she  brought.  She  says  she  don't  know  but  it  will 
make  you  feel  bad  to  see  it." 

"  Of  course  you  can  take  it." 

"Mrs.  Emmons  says  she'll  take  her  mats  too,  if  you'd 
like  to  have  her." 

"  Of  course  she  can  take  them." 

The  young  girl  shrank  over  to  the  table,  snatched  up  the 
toilet  set  and  mats,  and  fled  to  her  mother. 

When  they  were  all  gone,  David  Thayer  approached 
Delia.  He  had  been  sitting  on  a  chair  by  the  bedroom 
door,  holding  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  goin'  now,"  said  he.  "If  there's  anything  I  can 
do,  you  let  me  know." 

"There  won't  be  anything,"  said  Delia.  "I  shall  get 
along  all  right." 

He  shook  her  hand  hard  in  his  old  trembling  one. 
"You're  more  of  a  man  than  Lawrence  is,"  said  he.  He 
was  a  very  old  man,  and  his  voice,  although  it  was  still 
deep,  quavered. 

"There  isn't  any  use  in  your  saying  much  to  him,"  said 
Delia.  "  I  don't  want  you  to,  on  my  account." 

"  Delia,  don't  you  go  to  standin'  up  for  him.  He  don't 
deserve  it." 

"  I  ain't  standing  up  for  him.  I  know  he's  your  son,  but 
it  doesn't  seem  to  me  there's  a  great  deal  to  stand  up  for. 
What  he's  done  is  natural  enough ;  he's  been  carried  away 
by  a  pretty  face  ;  but  he  has  shown  out  what  he  is." 

"  I  don't  blame  you  a  bit  for  feelin'  so,  Delia." 

"  I  don't  see  any  other  way  to  feel ;  it's  the  truth." 

"Well,  good-bye,  Delia.  I  hope  you  won't  lay  up  any 
thing  again'  his  mother  an'  me.  We'll  always  think  a  good 
deal  of  you." 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  423 

"I  haven't  any  reason  to  lay  up  anything  against  you 
that  I  know  of,"  said  Delia.  Her  manner  was  stern,  al 
though  she  did  not  mean  it  to  be.  She  could  not,  as  it 
were,  relax  her  muscles  enough  to  be  cordial.  All  the 
strength  in  Delia  Caldwell's  nature  was  now  concentrated. 
It  could  accomplish  great  things,  but  it  might  grind  little 
ones  to  pieces. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Delia,"  sakl  the  old  man,  piteously. 
He  was  himself  a  strong  character,  but  he  seemed  weak 
beside  her. 

After  he  had  gone,  Delia  went  Into  the  bedroom  to  her 
mother.  Mrs.  Caldwell  was  sitting  there  crying.  She 
looked  up  when  her  daughter  entered. 

"  Oh,  Delia,"  she  sobbed,  "  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  ? — 
what  are  you  goin'  to  do  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  take  off  this  dress,  for  one  thing." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  will  do.  There  you've  got  this 
dress  and  your  black  silk,  two  new  silk  dresses,  and  your 
new  brown  woollen  one,  and  your  new  bonnet  and  mantle, 
all  these  new  things,  and  the  weddin'-cake." 

"I  suppose  I  can  wear  dresses  and  bonnets  just  as  well 
if  I  ain't  married  ;  and  as  for  the  wedding-cake,  we'll  have 
some  of  it  for  supper." 

"  Delia  Caldwell !" 

"What's  the  matter,  mother?" 

Delia  slipped  off  the  long  shimmering  skirt  of  her  pearl- 
colored  silk,  shook  it  out,  and  laid  it  carefully  over  a  chair. 

"  Are  you  crazy  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.     Why?" 

"You  don't  act  natural." 

"  I'm  acting  the  way  that's  natural  to  me." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?     Oh,  you  poor  child  !" 


424  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

Mrs.  Caldwell  laid  hold  of  her  daughter's  hand  as  she 
passed  near  her,  and  attempted  to  pull  her  to  her  side. 

"  Don't,  please,  mother,"  said  Delia. 

Her  mother  relinquished  her  hold,  and  sobbed  afresh. 
"1  won't  pity  you  it  you  don't  want  me  to,"  said  she^f )"  but 
it's  dreadful.  There's — another — thing.  You've  lost  your 
school.  Flora  Strong's  spoke  for  it,  an'  she  won't  want  to 
give  it  up." 

"I  don't  want  her  to.     I'll  get  another  one." 

Delia  put  on  a  calico  dress,  and  kindled  a  fire,  and  made 
tea  as  usual.  She  put  some  slices  of  wedding-cake  on  the 
table  :  perhaps  her  will  extended  to  her  palate,  and  kept  it 
from  tasting  like  dust  and  ashes  to  her.  Her  mother  drank 
a  cup  of  tea  between  her  lamentations. 

After  supper  Delia  packed  up  her  wedding  gifts  and 
addressed  them  to  their  respective  donors.  There  were  a 
few  bits  of  silver,  but  the  greater  number  of  the  presents 
were  pieces  of  fancy-work  from  female  relatives.  She 
folded  these  mats  and  tidies  relentlessly  with  her  firm 
brown  fingers.  There  was  no  tenderness  in  her  touch.  She 
felt  not  the  least  sentiment  towards  inanimate  things. 

"I  think  they're  actin'  awful  mean  to  want  to  grab 
these  things  back  so  quick,"  said  her  mother,  her  wrath 
gaining  upon  her  grief  a  little. 

"It  goes  well  with  the  rest,"  said  Delia. 

Among  the  gifts  which  she  returned  was  a  little  em 
broidered  tidy  from  Flora  Strong,  the  girl  who  had  been 
engaged  to  teach  her  former  school. 

Flora  came  over  early  the  next  morning.  She  opened  the 
door,  and  stood  there  hesitating.  She  was  bashful  before 
the  trouble  in  the  house.  "  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Caldwell ; 
good-morning,  Delia,"  she  faltered,  deprecatingly.  She  had 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  425 

a  thin,  pretty  face,  with  very  red  lips  and  cheeks.  She 
fumbled  a  little  parcel  nervously. 

"  Good-mornin',  Flora,"  said  Mrs.  Caldwell.  Then  she 
turned  her  back,  and  went  into  the  pantry. 

Delia  was  washing  dishes  at  the  sink.  She  spoke  just 
as  she  always  did.  "  Good-morning,"  said  she.  "  Sit  down, 
won't  you,  Flora  ?" 

Then  Flora  began.  "  Oh,  Delia,"  she  burst  out,  "  what 
made  you  send  this  back? — what  made  you?  You  didn't 
think  I'd  take  it?" 

"  Take  what  ?" 

"  This  tidy.  Oh,  Delia,  I  made  it  for  you !  It  doesn't 
make  any  difference  whether — "  Flora  choked  with  sobs. 
She  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  put  her  handkerchief  over 
her  face.  Mrs.  Caldwell  heard  her,  and  began  weeping,  as 
she  stood  in  the  pantry.  Delia  went  on  with  her  dishes. 

"  Oh,  Delia,  you'll — take  it  back,  won't  you  ?"  Flora  said, 
finally. 

"  Of  course  I  will,  if  you  want  me  to.     It's  real  pretty." 

"When  I  heard  of  it."  the  girl  went  on — "  I  don't  know 
as  you  want  me  to  speak  of  it,  but  I've  got  to — I  felt  as  if 
— I  declare  I'd  like  to  see  Lawrence  Thayer  come  up  with. 
I'll  never  speak  to  him  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Delia,  you 
aren't  standing  up  for  him,  are  you  ?  You  don't  care  if  I 
do  say  he's — a  villain?" 

"  I  hope  she  don't,"  wailed  her  mother  in  the  pantry. 

"  No,"  said  Delia,  "  I  don't  care." 

Then  Flora  offered  to  give  up  the  school.  She  pleaded 
that  she  should  take  it,  but  Delia  would  not.  She  could 
get  another,  she  said. 

That  afternoon,  indeed,  she  went  to  see  the  committee. 
She  had  put  the  house  to  tights,  pinned  Flora's  tidy  on  the 


4.26  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

big  rocking-chair  in  the  parlor,  and  dressed  herself  carefully 
in  a  blue-sprigged  muslin,  one  of  her  wedding  gowns.  Pass 
ing  down  the  hot  village  street,  she  saw  women  sewing  at 
their  cool  sitting-room  windows.  She  looked  up  at  them 
and  nodded  as  usual.  She  knew  of  a  school  whose  teacher 
had  left  to  be  married,  as  she  had  done.  She  thought  the 
vacancy  had  possibly  not  been  filled.  Very  little  of  the 
vacation  had  passed.  Moreover,  the  school  was  not  a  de 
sirable  one  :  the  pay  was  small,  and  it  was  three  miles  from 
the  village.  Delia  obtained  the  position.  Early  in  Sep 
tember  she  began  her  duties.  She  went  stanchly  back 
and  forth  over  the  rough,  dusty  road  day  after  day.  She 
had  the  reputation  of  being  a  very  fine  teacher,  although 
the  children  were  a  little  in  awe  of  her.  They  never  came 
to  meet  her  and  hang  about  her  on  her  way  to  the  school- 
house.  Her  road  lay  past  the  Thayer  house,  where  she 
would  have  been  living  now  had  all  gone  well.  Occasion 
ally  she  met  Lawrence ;  she  passed  him  without  a  look. 
Quite  often  she  met  Olive  Briggs,  who  worked  in  a  milliner's 
shop,  and  boarded  at  Lawrence's  father's.  She  always 
bowed  to  her  pleasantly.  She  had  seen  her  in  the  shop, 
although  she  had  no  real  acquaintance  with  her.  The  girl 
was  pretty,  with  the  prettiness  that  Delia  lacked.  Her 
face  was  sweet  and  rosy  and  laughing.  She  was  fine  and 
small,  and  moved  with  a  sort  of  tremulous  lightness  like  a 
butterfly.  Delia,  meeting  her,  seemed  to  tramp. 

Everybody  thought  Lawrence  and  Olive  Briggs  would 
be  married.  They  went  to  evening  meetings  together,  and 
to  ride.  Lawrence  had  a  fine  horse.  Delia  was  at  every 
evening  meeting.  She  watched  her  old  lover  enter  with 
the  other  girl,  and  never  shrank.  She  also  looked  at  them 
riding  past. 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  427 

"Did  you  see  them,  Delia?"  her  mother  asked  in  a  flut 
tering  voice  one  afternoon.  She  and  Delia  were  sitting  at 
the  front  windows,  and  Lawrence  and  Olive  had  just  whirled 
by  the  house. 

"Yes." 

"You  kept  so  still,  I  didn't  know  as  you  did." 

People  kept  close  watch  over  Lawrence  and  Olive  and 
Delia.  Lawrence  was  subjected  to  a  mild  species  of  ostra 
cism  by  a  certain  set  of  the  village  girls,  Delia's  mates- 
honest,  simple  young  souls ;  they  would  not  speak  to  him 
on  the  street.  They  treated  Olive  with  rough,  rural  stiffness 
when  they  traded  with  her  in  the  one  milliner's  shop.  She 
was  an  out-of-town  girl,  and  had  always  been  regarded 
with  something  of  suspicion.  These  village  women  had  a 
strong  local  conservatism.  They  eyed  strangers  long  before 
they  admitted  them. 

As  for  Delia,  the  young  women  friends  of  her  own  age 
treated  her  with  a  sort  of  deferential  sympathy.  They 
dared  not  openly  condole  with  her,  but  they  made  her  aware 
of  their  partisanship.  As  a  general  thing  no  one  except  a 
Thayer  or  a  Caldwell  alluded  to  the  matter  in  her  presence. 
The  relatives  of  the  two  families  were  open  enough  in  ex 
pressing  themselves,  either  with  recrimination  or  excuse 
for  Lawrence,  or  with  sympathy  or  covert  blame  for  Delia. 
She  heard  the  most  of  it,  directly  or  indirectly.  Like  many 
New  England  towns,  this  was  almost  overshadowed  by  the 
ramifications  of  a  few  family  trees.  A  considerable  por 
tion  of  the  population  was  made  of  these  Thayers  and  Cald- 
wells — two  honorable  and  respectable  old  names.  They 
were  really,  for  the  most  part,  kindly  and  respectable  peo 
ple,  conscious  of  no  ill  intentions,  and  probably  possessed  of 
few.  Some  of  them  expostulated  against  receiving  back 


428  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

those  vain  bridal  gifts,  but  Delia  insisted.  Some  of  them 
were  more  willing  to  give  than  she  to  receive  their  hon 
est  and  most  genuine  sympathy  however  ungracefully  they 
might  proffer  it. 

Still  the  fine  and  exquisite  stabs  which  Delia  Caldwell 
had  to  take  from  her  own  relations  and  those  of  her  for 
sworn  bridegroom  were  innumerable.  There  are  those  good 
and  innocent -hearted  people  who  seem  to  be  furnished 
with  stings  only  for  those  of  their  own  kind  j  they  are 
stingless  towards  others.  In  one  way  this  fact  may  have 
proved  beneficial  to  Delia:  while  engaged  in  active  de 
fence  against  outside  attacks,  she  had  no  time  to  sting  her 
self. 

She  girded  on  that  pearl-colored  silk  as  if  it  were  chain 
armor,  and  went  to  merrymakings.  She  made  calls  in  that 
fine  black  silk  and  white-plumed  wedding  bonnet.  It 
seemed  at  times  as  if  she  were  fairly  running  after  her 
trouble ;  she  did  more  than  look  it  in  the  face. 

It  was  in  February,  when  Delia  had  been  teaching  her 
new  school  nearly  two  terms,  that  Olive  Briggs  left  town. 
People  said  she  had  given  up  her  work  and  gone  home  to 
get  ready  to  be  married. 

Delia's  mother  heard  of  it,  and  told  her.  "  I  should 
think  she'd  be  awful  afraid  he  wouldn't  come  to  the  wed- 
clin',"  she  said,  bitterly. 

"  So  should  I,"  assented  Delia.  She  echoed  everybody's 
severe  remarks  about  Lawrence. 

It  might  have  been  a  month  later  when  Flora  Strong  ran 
in  one  morning  before  school.  "  I've  just  heard  the  greatest- 
news  !"  she  panted.  "  What  do  you  think— she's  jilted  him  ?'' 

"  Jilted  whom  ?" 

"Olive   Briggs--she's  jilted    Lawrence   Thayer.     She's 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  429 

going  to  be  married  to  another  fellow  in  May.  I  had  it 
from  Milly  Davis  ;  she  writes  to  her.  It's  so." 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  Mrs.  Caldwell  said,  quivering. 

"Well,  it's  so.  I  declare  I  jumped  right  up  and  down 
when  I  heard  of  it.  Delia,  aien't  you  glad  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  difference  it  can  make  to  me." 

"  I  mean  aren't  you  glad  he's  got  his  pay  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Delia,  with_slow  decision. 

"  She  wouldn't  be  human  if  she  wasn't,"  said  her  mother. 
Mrs.  Caldwell  was  cold  and  trembling  with  nervousness. 
She  stood  grasping  the  back  of  a  chair.  "  But  I'm  afraid 
it  ain't  so.  Are  you  sure  it's  so,  Flora?" 

"  Mrs.  Caldwell,  I  know  it's  so." 

Delia  on  her  way  to  school  that  morning  looked  at  the 
Thayer  house  as  she  passed.  "  I  wonder  how  he  feels," 
she  said  to  herself.  She  saw  Lawrence  Thayer,  in  her 
stead,  in  the  midst  of  all  that  co.vert  ridicule  and  obloquy, 
that  galling  sympathy,  that  agony  of  jealousy  and  betrayed 
trust.  They  distorted  his  face  like  flames ;  she  saw  him 
writhe  through  their  liquid  wavering. 

She  pressed  her  lips  together,  and  marched  along.  At 
that  moment,  had  she  met  Lawrence,  she  would  have  passed 
him  with  a  fiercer  coldness  than  ever,  but  if  she  had  seen 
the  girl  she  would  have  been  ready  to  fly  at  her. 

The  village  tongues  were  even  harder  on  Lawrence  than 
they  had  been  on  her.  The  sight  of  a  person  bending  tow 
ards  the  earth  with  the  weight  of  his  just  deserts  upon  his 
shoulders  is  generally  gratifying  and  amusing  even  to  his 
friends.  Then  there  was  more  open  rudeness  among  the 
young  men  who  were  Lawrence's  mates.  They  jeered  him 
everywhere.  He  went  about  doggedly.  He  was  strong  in 
silence,  but  he  had  a  sweet  womanish  face  which  showed 
28 


430  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

the  marks  of  words  quickly.  He  was  still  very  young. 
Delia  was  two  years  older  than  he,  and  looked  ten.  Still, 
Lawrence  seemed  as  old  in  some  respects.  He  was  a  quiet, 
shy  young  man,  who  liked  to  stay  at  home  with  his  parents, 
and  never  went  about  much  with  the  young  people.  Before 
Olive  came  he  had  seldom  spoken  to  any  girl  besides  Delia. 
They  had  been  together  soberly  and  steadily  ever  since  their 
school-days. 

Some  people  said  now,  "  Don't  you  suppose  Lawrence 
Thayer  will  go  with  Delia  again  ?"  But  the  answer  always 
was,  "  She  won't  look  at  him." 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  about  a  year  after  Olive  Briggs's 
marriage,  Mrs.  Caldwell  said  to  Delia,  as  they  were  walking 
home  from  church,  "  I  jest  want  to  know  if  you  noticed 
how  Lawrence  Thayer  stared  at  you  in  meetin'  this  after 
noon  ?" 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Delia.  She  was  looking  uncom 
monly  well  that  day.  She  wore  her  black  silk,  and  had 
some  dark-red  roses  in  her  bonnet. 

"  Well,  he  never  took  his  eyes  off  you.  Delia,  that  feller 
would  give  all  his  old  shoes  to  come  back,  if  you'd  have 
him." 

"  Don't  talk  so  foolish,  mother." 

"  He  would — you  depend  on  it." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  him,"  said  Delia,  sternly.  There  was  a 
red  glow  on  her  dull,  thick  cheeks. 

"Well,  I  say  so  too,"  said  her  mother. 

The  next  night,  when  Delia  reached  the  Thayer  house  on 
her  way  from  school,  Lawrence's  mother  stood  at  the  gate. 
She  had  a  little  green  shawl  over  her  head.  She  was  shiv 
ering  ;  the  wind  blew  up  cool.  /"Just  behind  her  in  the  yard 
there  was  a  little  peach-tree  all  in  blossom. 


A   CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  43, 

She  held  out  her  hand  mutely  when  Delia  reached  her. 
The  girl  did  not  take  it.  "  Good-evening,"  said  she,  and 
was  passing. 

"  Can't  you  stop  jest  a  minute,  Delia?" 

"  Was  there  anything  you  wanted  ?" 

"  Can't  you  come  into  the  house  jest  a  minute  ?  I  want 
ed  to  see  you  about  somethin'." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  to-night,  Mrs.  Thayer." 

"There  ain't  anybody  there.  There  was  somethin'  I 
wanted  to  see  you  about." 

The  green  shawl  was  bound  severely  around  her  small, 
old  face  with  its  peaked  chin.  She  reached  out  her  long, 
wrinkled  hand  over  the  gate,  and  clutched  Delia's  arm 
softly. 

"Well,  I'll  come  in  a  minute."  Delia  followed  Mrs. 
Thayer  past  the  blooming  peach-tree  into  the  house. 

The  old  woman  dragged  forward  the  best  rocking-chair 
tremblingly.  "  Sit  down,  dear."  said  she.  Then  she  seat 
ed  herself  close  beside  her,  and,  leaning  forward,  gazed  into 
her  face  with  a  sort  of  deprecating  mildness.  She  even 
laid  hold  of  one  of  her  hands,  but  the  girl  drew  it  away 
softly.  There  was  a  gentle  rustic  demonstrativeness  about 
Lawrence's  mother  which  had  always  rather  abashed  Delia, 
who  was  typically  reserved.  "  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about  Lawrence,"  said  the  old  woman.  Delia  sat  stiffly 
erect,  her  head  turned  away.  "  I  can't  bear  to  think  you 
are  always  goin'  to  feel  so  hard  towards  him,  Delia.  Did 
you  know  it  ?" 

Delia  half  arose.  "  There  isn't  any  use  in  bringing  all 
this  up  again,  Mrs.  Thayer;  it's  all  past  now." 

"  Sit  down  jest  a  minute,  dear.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
I  know  you've  got  good  reason  to  blame  him ;  but  there's 


432  A    CONQUES7    OF  HUMILITY. 

some  excuse.  He  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  boy,  an'  she  was 
sweet-lookin',  an'  she  took  on  dreadful.  You'd  thought  she 
was  goin'  to  die.  It's  turned  out  jest  the  way  I  knew 
'twould.  I  told  Lawrence  how  'twould  be  then.  I  see 
right  through  her.  She  meant  well  enough.  I  s'pose  she 
thought  she  was  in  love  with  Lawrence  ;  but  she  was  flighty. 
She  went  home  and  saw  another  fellow,  an'  Lawrence  was 
nowhere.  He  didn't  care  so  much  as  folks  thought.  Delia, 
I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  the  truth  :  he  thought  more  of  you 
than  he  did  of  her  the  whole  time.  You  look  as  if  you 
thought  I  was  crazy,  but  I  ain't.  She  jest  bewitched  him 
a  little  spell,  but  you  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  always 
— you  was,  Delia."  The  old  woman  broke  into  sobs. 

Delia  rose.  "  I'd  better  go.  There  isn't  any  use  in  bring 
ing  this  up,  Mrs.  Thayer." 

"  Don't  go,  Delia — don't.  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  He  got 
to  talkin'  with  me  a  little  the  other  Sabbath  night.  It's  the 
first  time  he's  said  a  word,  but  he  felt  awful  bad,  an'  I 
questioned  him.  Says  he,  'Mother,  I  don't  dream  of  such 
a  thing  as  her  havin'  of  me,  or  carin'  anything  about  me 
again  ;  but  I  do  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  do  somethin'  if  I 
could,  to  make  up  to  her  a  little  for  the  awful  wrong  I've 
done  her.'  That  was  jest  the  words  he  said.  Delia,  he 
ain't  such  a  bad  boy  as  you  think  he  is,  after  all.  You 
hadn't  ought  to  despise  him." 

"  He'll  have  to  do  something  to  show  I've  got  some  rea 
son  not  to,  then,"  said  Delia.  She  looked  immovably  at 
the  old  woman,  who  was  struggling  with  her  sobs.  She 
told  her  mother  of  the  conversation  after  she  got  home. 

"You  did  jest  right,"  said  Mrs.  Caldwell.  "I  wouldn't 
knuckle  to  'em  if  I  was  in  your  place."  She  was  getting 
tea.  After  they  had  finished  the  meal,  and  sat  idly  at  the 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

table  for  a  few  minutes,  she  looked  across  at  her  daughter 
suddenly,  with  embarrassed  sharpness.  "  Speakin'  about 
Lawrence,  you  wouldn't  feel  as  if  you  ever  could  take  him, 
anyhow,  would  you  ?"  said  she. 

"  Mother,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

In  a  few  weeks  the  anniversary  of  Delia's  defeated  wed 
ding  came.  She  spoke  of  it  herself  after  dinner.  She  and 
her  mother  were  making  currant-jelly. 

"  Why,  it's  my  wedding-day,  mother,"  said  she.  "  I  ought 
to  have  put  on  my  wedding-gown,  and  eaten  some  wedding- 
cake,  instead  of  making  jelly." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  child,"  said  her  mother.  Sometimes  De 
lia's  hardihood  startled  her. 

Delia  was  pressing  the  currants  in  a  muslin  bag,  and  the 
juice  was  running  through  her  fingers,  when  there  was  a 
loud  knock  at  the  door. 

"Why,  who's  that,  her  mother  said,  fluttering.  She  ran 
and  peeped  through  the  sitting-room  blinds.  "  It's  Mrs. 
'Rastus  Thayer,"  she  motioned  back,  "an'  Milly." 

"  I'll  go  to  the  door,"  said  Delia.  She  washed  her  hands 
hurriedly,  and  went.  She  noticed  with  surprise  that  the 
two  visitors  were  dressed  in  their  Sunday  best,  Mrs.  Thayer 
in  her  nicely  kept  cinnamon-brown  silk,  and  Milly  in  her 
freshly  starched  white  muslin.  They  had  an  air  of  con 
strained  curiosity  about  them  as  they  entered  and  took  their 
seats  in  the  parlor. 

Delia  sat  down  with  them  and  tried  to  talk.  Pretty  soon 
her  mother,  who  had  prinked  a  little,  entered  ;  but  just  as 
she  did  so  there  was  another  knock.  Some  of  the  Cald- 
well  cousins  had  come  this  time.  They  also  were  finely 
dressed,  and  entered  with  that  same  soberly  expectant  air. 
They  were  hardly  seated  before  others  arrived.  Delia,  go- 


434  A   CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

ing  to  the  door  this  time,  saw  the  people  coming  by  twos 
and  threes  up  the  street.  They  flocked  in,  and  she  brought 
chairs.  Nothing  disturbed  her  outward  composure ;  but 
her  mother  grew  pale  and  tremulous.  She  no  longer  tried 
to  speak  ;  she  sat  staring.  At  two  o'clock  the  rooms  were 
filled  with  that  same  company  who  had  assembled  to  see 
Delia  wedded  two  years  before. 

They  sat  around  the  walls  in  stiff  silence ;  they  seemed 
to  be  waiting.  Delia  was  not  imaginative,  nor  given  to 
morbid  fancies  ;  but  sitting  there  in  the  midst  of  that  mys 
terious  company,  in  her  cotton  gown,  with  her  hands  stained 
with  currant  juice,  she  began  to  fairly  believe  that  it  was  a 
dream.  Were  not  these  people  mere  phantoms  of  the  fa 
miliar  village  folk  assembling  after  this  truly  fantastic  man 
ner,  and  sitting  here  in  this  ghostly  silence  ?  Was  not  the 
whole  a  phantasmagoria  of  the  last  moments  of  her  sweet 
old  happiness  and  belief  in  truth?  Was  not  she  herself, 
disenchanted,  with  her  cotton  gown  and  stained  hands,  the 
one  real  thing  in  it? 

The  scent  of  the  pinks  came  in  the  window,  and  she  no 
ticed  that.  "How  real  it  all  is?"  she  thought.  "But  I 
shall  wake  up  before  long."  It  was  like  one  of  those 
dreams  in  which  one  clings  stanchly  to  the  consciousness 
of  the  dream,  and  will  not  sink  beneath  its  terrors. 

When  Lawrence  Thayer  entered  she  seemed  to  wake  vi 
olently.  She  half  rose  from  her  seat,  then  sank  down  again. 
Her  mother  screamed. 

Lawrence  Thayer  stood  by  the  parlor  door,  where  every 
body  in  the  two  rooms  could  hear  him.  His  gentle,  beard 
less  face  was  pale  as  death,  but  the  pallor  revealed  some 
strong  lines  which  his  youthful  bloom  had  softened.  He 
was  slender,  and  stooped  a  little  naturally;  now  he  was 


A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY.  435 

straight  as  a  reed.  He  had  a  strange  look  to  these  people 
who  had  always  known  him. 

"  Friends,"  he  began,  in  a  solemn,  panting  voice,  "  I — 
])ave — asked  you  to  come  here  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
clay  on  which  Delia  Caldwell  and  I  were  to  have  been  mar 
ried,  to  make  to  her,  before  you  all,  the  restitution  in  my 
power.  I  don't  do  it  to  put  myself  before  you  in  a  better 
light  :  God,  who  knows  everything,  knows  I  don't :  it's  for 
her.  I  was  a  coward,  and  mean,  and  it's  going  to  last. 
Nothing  that  I  can  do  now  is  going  to  alter  that.  All  I  want 
now  is  to  make  up  to  her  a  little  for  what  she's  been  through. 
Two  years  ago  to-day  she  stood  before  you  all  rejected  and 
slighted.  Now  look  at  me  in  her  place." 

Then  he  turned  to  Delia,  with  a  stiff  motion.  It  was  like 
solemn,  formal  oratory,  but  his  terrible  earnestness  gave  it 
heat.  "Delia  Caldwell,  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon.  I 
love  you  better  than  the  whole  world,  and  I  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife." 

"  I  never  will."  It  was_as  if  Delia's  whole  nature  had 
been  set  to  these  words ;  they  had  to  be  spoken.  She  had 
risen,  and  stood  staring  at  him  so  intently  that  the  whole 
concourse  of  people  vanished  in  blackness.  She  saw  only 
his  white  face.  All  the  thoughts  in  her  brain  spread  wings 
and  flew,  swiftly  circling.  She  heard  what  he  said,  and  she 
heard  her  own  thoughts  with  a  strange  double  conscious 
ness.  All  those  days  came  back — the  sweet  old  confi 
dences,  the  old  looks  and  ways.  That  pale  speaking  face 
was  Lawrence's — Lawrence's;  not  that  strange  other's  who 
had  left  her  for  that  pink-faced  girl.  This  revelation  of  his 
inner  self,  which  smote  the  others  with  a  sense  of  strange 
ness,  thrilled  her  with  the  recognition  of  love.  "  A  coward 
and  mean."  Yes,  he  had  been,  but —  Yes,  there  was  some 


436  A    CONQUEST  OF  HUMILITY. 

excuse  for  him — there  was.  Is  not  every  fault  wedded  to 
its  own  excuse,  that  pity  may  be  born  into  the  world  ?  He 
was  as  honest  in  what  he  was  saying  as  a  man  could  be. 
He  could  have  had  no  hope  that  she  would  marry  him.  He 
knew  her  enduring  will,  her  power  of  indignation.  This 
was  no  subtle  scheme  for  his  own  advantage.  Even  these 
people  would  not  think  that.  They  would  not,  indeed,  be 
lieve  him  capable  of  it.  The  system  of  terrible  but  coolly 
calculated  ventures  for  success  was  one  with  which  this  man 
would  not  be  likely  to  grapple.  He  was  honest  in  this. 
There  sat  all  the  Thayers  and  Caldwells.  How  they  would 
talk,  and  laugh  at  him  ! 

Lawrence  turned  to  go.  He  had  bowed  silently  when 
she  gave  him  her  quick  answer.  There  was  a  certain  dig 
nity  about  him.  He Jhad  in  reality  pulled  himself  up  to  the 
level  of  his  own  noble,  avowed  sentiments. 

Delia  stood  gazing  after  him.  She  looked  so  relentless 
that  she  was  almost  terrible.  One  young  girl,  staring  at 
her,  began  to  cry. 

Mrs.  Erastus  Thayer  sat  near  the  door.  Delia's  eyes 
glanced  from  Lawrence  to  her  face.  Then  she  sprang 
forward. 

"  You  needn't  look  at  him  in  that  way,"  she  cried  out. 
"  I  am  going  to  marry  him.  Lawrence,  come  back." 


THE    END. 


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